


Antigonish

by Madophelia



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Drug Use, F/M, Hand Jobs, M/M, Med Student John, Promiscuity, Unilock, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-14
Updated: 2014-05-11
Packaged: 2017-12-05 08:01:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 29,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/720720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madophelia/pseuds/Madophelia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As I was coming down the stairs<br/>I met a man who wasn't there<br/>He wasn't there again today<br/>I wish that man would go away.</p><p>John "Three Campuses" Watson has a reputation for bedding people from all nearby universities and then some, and yes, all the rumors are true. This story chronicles what happens when, while trying to escape his most recent conquest's house in the early hours of the morning, John meets a strange man on the stairs who makes him question whether he wants the reputation anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

Worse than the stupendous pounding to his frontal lobe, worse than the way the early morning light wrenched at his vision and definitely worse than the indescribable taste in his mouth, was the ever-familiar heat at his back telling him that, yet again, John H. Watson had awoken in a strangers' bed.

Barely stifling a groan, John slipped from the covers with practised ease and, ignoring the stabbing pain as he bent over, began to collect his scattered clothing. Nothing was missing this time, thank God but he did find his underwear balled at the bottom of the duvet and extracted them carefully so as not to disturb the body in the bed.

Once he was dressed he checked himself over once to make sure he had all his possessions, thinking of the many socks languishing in his drawer who's twin had been lost in one of these sunrise skirmishes. He glanced over at the disarray of covers on the bed and body between them. 

She was pretty in a demure kind of way, soft features and long hair that was mid-way between blonde and brown, similar to his own hue but lacking the flashes of gold. He recognised her from some of his module classes but he couldn't say which and he could not, for the life of him, remember her name. John's knowledge of what had happened on the course-mate bar crawl the previous evening was hazy at best. They'd started pre-drinking at their house. Mike, Bill and Terry had invited a few people from their class over and the drinking games began in earnest about three hours before they'd met everyone else at the first pub. 

The girl was curled up peacefully, a hand fisted loosely under her cheek, unaware of the hangover awaiting her and John had no desire to bring it upon her. At least, that is what he told himself as he shimmied through a barely opened doorway, he was doing her a kindness, really. 

He was halfway down creaking stairs, shoes in his hand so as not to make any unnecessary noise, when a deep voice stopped him in his tracks. 

“Trauma or Neuro?” 

“Excuse me?” John said turning his head a fraction too fast for his hangover to concede.

“I said Trauma, or Neuro. Surgery, which is your elective?” 

“Um, Trauma. Sorry, who are you?”

The figure remained quite still at the top of the stairs, backlit by the rising sunlight coming through the window in the bathroom. He was leaning on the door frame, tall and lithe but John couldn't make out his features. 

“No one.” His voice was deep and if John's hangover had left any room amongst its feverish, frantic scratchings, he felt sure it would have burrowed in and set up home there. 

“Have we met?” John shifted his feet on the stairs carefully, still a little unsteady from lack of sleep and too much alcohol still coursing through his veins. 

“No, no” the man replied moving forward and flicking his hand dismissively as his features were thrown into stark relief. 

“So then how--” John started. The man standing before him was a column of marble foreboding. Most notably, he has piercing grey/silver eyes that peered into John with both intense scrutiny and overt boredom. 

“I observed.” 

Suddenly the man was coming down the stairs and John had to stumble back flush to the wall, uncoordinated and clumsy, as he passed. He moved with one smooth motion, his legs seemed to make their way down the steps without disrupting the rest of him, all straight lines and angles. The stairs barely creaked at all at the strange man made his way down but seemed determined to give John's hurried escape away as he followed down after him. 

“Sorry, what do you mean observed?” he asked as he followed him into the living room. 

“You were going to ask me how I knew about your course if we had never met, I didn't know, I observed.”

He was laying on the couch with a straight-laced kind of ease. Too tall to recline completely in the small space but his head and feet were resting on the arms of the thing creating a slight bend at his waist between his jeans and his shirt but otherwise he was one continuous, perfectly straight, line.

“Again, what the hell does that mean?” His hangover was festering now and the infuriating way this bloke avoided questions and the invading way his eyes kept darting about and peering at John was starting to unnerve him. Perhaps it was best to let the matter rest and just leave before the girl woke up but something kept him from walking away. The left-over intoxication of last nights binge drinking probably.

“You were sneaking out of Molly's room. A girl who does little socialising outside of her course, medicine, or more specifically pathology so I conclude you know her from shared classes or other studying groups around the same subject area. The way you carried your shoes and moved without much sound would suggest this isn't your first time sneaking out of an unfamiliar house in the early hours of the morning which tells me you obviously like the excitement of a one-night-stand but can't stand lingering too long in the morning, judging by the hour and the fact that you are leaving despite what appears to be a rather uncomfortable hangover. Hangover? Yes. Going by the way you squint in the light are showing classic signs of alcohol induced dehydration. So, someone studying medicine, likes excitement and clearly has finite control over his body under stressful situations, surgery then. But that wouldn't be enough, no, the man before me isn't just looking for excitement every now and again, he's done this before, multiples times owing to the noises emitting from Molly's room last night indicating a skill level picked up over a long string of lovers. Skills that you were able to conduct even though you were dreadfully intoxicated when you arrived here around four in the morning. Promiscuous, then, and looking for excitement and the rush of multiple partners in one-time scenarios. That thirst for adventure and adrenaline must transfer to your working life. Surgery? Excitement? Precision? Trauma or Neuro.”

“That was... amazing.” 

“That's not what people normally say.”

“What do they normally say?”

The man's eyes flickered for a second before John heard the noise upstairs. 

“That's Molly.” he said with a mischievous grin. “You'd better get a move on if you don't want to be caught.”

“Right, yeah, thanks.” John pulled on his shoes roughly not bothering to tie the laces but stabbing down the sides instead. “Sorry, didn't catch your name.” he said straightening to meet the odd man's gaze.

“I didn't give it.” he replied a smirk lob-sided on his mouth, face otherwise placid.

“Right. Well, thanks, whoever you are.”

“Sherlock Holmes.” He stood with the same fluidity as he had moved down the stairs, one quick movement and he went from reclining to stood. Blink, and you would have missed it. He stretched out his hand with an invitation. “And you are?” 

“I'm John.” John said, taking Sherlock's hand and shaking it as firmly as his delicate condition would allow. “John Watson.” 

Sherlock didn't reply but took a step back and allowed John to exit without another word. He reached the front door and was out in the cold morning without a sign of the Molly girl. He'd had luck, sometimes his escapes were not as well executed and he'd been caught more than once with his trousers halfway up his legs and a lame excuse about an early tutorial on his lips.

This mornings victory was in no small part attributed Sherlock's warning but without his little diversion John would have left without a need for it. Still, it'd been worth it John supposed, the trick with the observations had been very interesting, if not unnerving. He'd told John all about his life without so much as a blink and had given more insight into his promiscuous behaviour than John could have figured out even if he _had_ ever spent time thinking about it. 

John blushed as he remembered Sherlock's deductions about his sexual prowess.

_A skill level picked up over a long string of lovers..._

Well, they didn't call him John 'Three Campuses' Watson for nothing. There were plenty of rumours, John knew, about how many women it had been, all the things he had purportedly done with said women (if it _was_ just women) and there were even speculations as to the exciting details regarding where and when these encounters had occurred. As John pulled his collar up again the early morning bite of cold air, there was just a hint of smugness mixed in with the flush on his cheeks as he noted that most of the rumours circulating around his sex life were, in fact, true.

It wasn't that John was unfeeling. He didn't sleep with a large number of people just for the sake of doing it and beyond a passing air of self-congratulation, he wasn't boastful or egotistical in any sense about his behaviour. It was just that ever since he'd had a mind to, he hadn't had much trouble pulling people. He was young, well built, physically fit and had the ability to engage in intelligent conversation if the need for it arose so sometimes it happened without him really intending it to.

Studying to be a doctor helped as well. As soon as 'What are you studying?' was met with 'Medicine at St. Barts” his trousers had a way of finding themselves onto people's bedroom floors by invitation rather than by John suggesting it himself. He never promised more than he was willing to give and, despite sneaking out in the morning to avoid the inevitable morning-after conversation, he didn't hide away from his one-night-stand intentions. It's just that few people had ever really objected to them.

Little had he known he was just looking for 'adventure'. John chuckled as he reached the main road and turned in the direction of his own house.

_That thirst for adventure and adrenaline..._

That was him, John Watson: Thrill-seeker. Still, he had to admit, it was the excitement that had drawn him to trauma surgery. Getting right down into the mess and the blood and the chaos focussed his mind and sharpened his senses. He found he was cool under pressure and able to think on his feet and his grades reflected as such. Perhaps that did translate to the thrill of the chase when it came to sexual encounters, maybe John was searching for a particular kind of thrill and he just hadn't found it yet.

Except, no, he could imagine settling down with someone, maybe having kids. But it was all a long way off in the future and he didn't suppose they could be just anyone, it would have to be someone amazing, someone surprising and exciting. It wasn't the normality he objected to, he wasn't screaming out for an abnormal existence or some sort of kink he just hadn't put his finger on, it just couldn't be boring.

A little over fifteen minutes later and John was home having not really left the student housing neighbourhood he lived in when he'd stayed at Molly's. John guessed that meant that Sherlock was also a student, possibly at Bart's, but he hadn't thought to ask and Sherlock had worked out John for himself. Why was he even thinking about Sherlock anyway? Yes, the trick was clever and he was obviously very smart and observant but really, a ten minute conversation in the midst of a massive hangover and lack of sleep wasn't anything to shout about.

After gulping a pint glass full of tap water and popping two paracetamol tablets John made his way to his room. Bed. He needed a bit more sleep and by mid-morning he'd be right as rain. He'd made it to the second set of stairs leading up to his bedroom in the attic conversion when he heard Bill's voice from behind him.

“John, John, John.” He laughed and John turned to find him clutching a bottle of Lucozade, his red hair a mess of stale gel and still wearing the t-shirt he had the night before, minus his jeans.

“You look almost as bad as I feel mate,” John said, smiling.

“Yeah, it was a good one huh?” Bill said unscrewing the cap on the bright orange bottle and taking a swig. “Where'd you get to?”

“Ah, you know.” John said sliding down to sit on a step halfway up the staircase, feeling exhausted but grinning none the less.

“Yeah, I know.” Bill laughed, “Molly, right?”

John nodded.

“You went back to hers did you? Cop a load of her house mate?”

“Sherlock?”John asked, suddenly intrigued.

“Who? No, Ella, in Brent's Psychology class, met her at that Christmas thing last year...” he bit his bottom lip and grinned filthily, “Wouldn't mind a bit of that.”

“We haven't met.” John said.

“Well, if you do just lay off and give the rest of us a chance, eh Three campuses?”

“Piss off.”

“Touchy.” Bill said raising his hands in mock surrender. “So you met the other one?”

“Other what?”

“House mate.” Bill said making to descend to the ground floor, “You said Sher...something.”

“Sherlock.” John said quickly before pausing. “We—We didn't meet, I ran into him on the way out is all.”

“He must be that weird guy. Molly is always sweet about him obviously, think she might be a bit hung up on him if you ask me. He goes to Bart's and does Pathology but only like, some of the time, he's off doing all sorts and he's always a bit of a dick. Mike knows him I think, from that forensic lecture he went to when he was on about all that, remember?”

“Yeah.” Apparently everyone knew about Sherlock while John had remained completely in the dark about his existence.

“So was he a dick when you met him?”

“No.” John said coming back from his thoughts of how on earth he could have missed the intriguing man if he'd been around campus. “He was, you know, fine, we didn't talk much.” For some reason John didn't feel like telling Bill about the way Sherlock had deduced him. Maybe he wanted to keep it to himself, or maybe he was afraid Bill would tell him that Sherlock was always like that and John wasn't entirely sure that he wouldn't have felt a bit weird about that for some reason.

“Cool. Well, speak to you later I'm going to kill some zombies for a bit, I am hanging.” Bill said miming the gaming controller with his hands as if John needed an explanation.

“Good shout. See you.” and with that, John retreated to his room, to his bed and to sleep and didn't wake up for a good few hours.

In fact, John did not wake until he heard Mike's knock on his door through the cloud of sleep.

“D'you want?” he said turning toward his door but not lifting his head.

“John.” Mike said coming into his room and sitting at his desk. “Got a sec?”

“Yeah,” John shifted to sit against the headboard and rubbed his face with both hands. “What can I do you for?”

“Bill said you went home with Molly last night.” 

John recognised that look. The one he'd seen on a fair few boyfriends or prospective boyfriends or best friends or gay best friends or big brothers or, in some cases, sisters.

“Mike, Molly is a big girl, she knew what she was doing. Honestly, I wouldn't ever have--”

“No you daft git.” Mike said with a faint smile, “I didn't think you'd have... what I meant is, I just wanted to know if it was true because...” the smile was gone.

_Oh._ It was that look. The other one. 

“Um, yeah but, I'm not, we're not... I won't be seeing her again, like that.”

“Right, good.” Mike said sitting back in the chair, “I mean--”

“I know what you meant Mike.” John said quietly, and then after a pause, “I'm sorry. I didn't know.”

“S'alright. You didn't ask. But then, you never really do, do you?”

John clenched his jaw and thought about defending himself but knew he had a piss poor argument as far as condoning his behaviour was concerned. 

_He's done this before, multiple times..._

Why the hell was Sherlock in his head again? Even now, full light of day streaming through his windows and his hangover almost a faded memory save a rumble in his stomach and a weak headache, Sherlock's voice was still bouncing around, repeating his deductions over and over.

“Mike, really. I'm sorry,” John said again. “Maybe you should give her a ring, you know? Buy her a drink or something, you could talk about the forensic thing you went to, she was there, right?”

“Maybe.”

“We both said it wasn't a big deal. It was just one night, we were both drunk, it won't be happening again and I don't think she'll be hung up about it. Phone her.” John smiled his most encouraging smile and swung his legs off the bed.

“I will. Thanks John.” Mike nodded once and stood up. “Hey, a friend of mine was asking after you earlier. Sherlock Holmes.” 

“What did he want?” John said, jaw clenching again. 

“Just text me, asking if I knew you since we were in the same year.”

John nodded.

“Didn't know you knew him.” Mike continued, “he wasn't out last night was he? Doesn't seem like his sort of thing.” 

“What, going out?” John asked before he could stop himself. 

“No, socialising. He goes out plenty,” Mike's eyes narrowed slightly. “So when did you meet him?” 

“Um, this...morning.” 

“ah.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Well, I'm off.” Mike said swinging out of John's door. “Later.” 

“Yeah, bye.” 

So, Sherlock Holmes was asking around after him. Or asking Mike anyway. Probably thanks to the whole 'That was amazing' lark, which was 'not what people usually say'. Trust John to say something so stupid. Talking to people he wanted to sleep with was easy, talking to people that genuinely impressed him was a lot more difficult. Probably said he needed to prove himself or spoke of low self esteem or some other such nonsense. Sherlock would probably know. Damn it, he thought, stop thinking about Sherlock. What the hell was the matter with him?

Right. Fry up, cup of tea, and everything would be back to normal. He'd go play computer games with Bill, maybe watch some TV, generally laze about for the rest of the day and then tomorrow, he'd start back on his coursework and the world would right itself again.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the Kudos and views and comments and bookmarks. I honestly didn't think anyone would read it so the lovely surprised inspired me to carry it on much sooner than I would have usually. Hope you enjoy it, hope to have more soon!

John was suffering through a particularly tedious lecture a week later, having all but forgotten about his encounter on the stairs, when his phone buzzed in his pocket. Surreptitiously he slid his phone from his jeans and pressed the button to open the new text message.

_Not very exciting, John. I'm disappointed. - SH_

SH? John was pretty sure he didn't know anyone with the initials SH, never mind one who would sign them to a text. He didn't have to ponder for very long until the image of Sherlock, graceful and elegant with an outstretched hand offered to him, entered his mind. _Sherlock Holmes._ John smirked slightly and tried to glance around the room without being too obvious about it. No sign of him.

_Observing again? That's a bit creepy you know._

John paused for a second before adding, _JW_ to the end of his message and pressing send. The reply was almost instantaneous and John had barely pushed his phone back into his pocket before he had to slide it out again. Covertly, he placed it on his desk underneath his notepad and pressed the button to open the message once again.

_Creepy? Maybe. But exciting, yes? - SH_

John chuckled as he read earning a side glance from the girl next to him. He smiled apologetically and her face softened. John swore he could feel her shift slightly in her seat to a position nearer to him but he disregarded the gesture, for now, and set about replying to Sherlock's latest message. He was rewarded with quick fire replies.

_Thrilling. But I'm trying to concentrate. - JW_

_Cauterisation history in battlefield medicine is boring John. It can be gleaned from the text book at a cursory glance. - SH_

_Are you here? - JW_

John gave another glance around the room searching for a head of black curls and a body of stiff posture.

_No. I sat in on it last year. Can't see how if could have changed. - SH_

John frowned slightly. If Sherlock wasn't actually in attendance how on earth did he know John was?

_Then how did you know I was here? - JW_

John was sure it was something to do with him working out his modules or researching which class the Trauma surgery elective would have him in now, that one didn't take a genius to work out but it was still slightly unnerving that Sherlock had even bothered to look it up.

_Simple. You probably worked it out for yourself. - SH_

Now he was a mind reader on top of everything else? It was really beginning to rub John up the wrong way that Sherlock presumed so much about him. Sure, he was usually right, but that was no reason to go around acting creepy and telling people things about themselves that they hadn't revealed yet.

_You think you're so clever don't you? - JW_

_I don't think. I know. You like it. - SH_

John dropped the notebook back on top of his phone resolutely. He'd had enough of Sherlock's presuming for one day. John was more than happy to indulge his interest to a point but being told what he did and didn't like by someone he had met for ten minutes was going too far. Besides, John didn't like it. Sherlock was a know-it-all and arrogant and-- Yes, clever and insightful but not restricted to normal social conventions. Who sent texts out of the blue to someone they barely knew and researched which class they would be in in order to show off how clever they were? For that matter, how the hell had Sherlock even got his phone number? John had to have a word with Mike about exactly how liberal he was with John's information.

“Did she do something wrong then?”

John turned to look at the girl next to him. She had the end of her pen pressed lightly between her lips and her head was tilted to the left slightly, towards John. Her voice was low so as not to be overhead but she had clearly been talking to him.

“Pardon?”

“Your friend,” she pointed the pen at the humped notebook concealing his phone, “she say something wrong? One minute you're texting frantically and the next you slammed it down.”

John grinned his 'Three campus' grin and leaned in ever so slightly.

“ _He_ is just a bit of a dick.” John explained, “Nothing to worry about.”

She giggled softly, “I've got friends like that,” and paused.

“So what do you reckon?” John said jerking his head in the direction of the lecturer who was animatedly discussing his subject. “Any good?”

“Interesting.” The girl said, “But nothing that wasn't in the text book. Not really my subject to be honest but I had a free class.”

See. John thought. That was normal behaviour, the light mocking tone hidden behind a shy smile. Acknowledging the lecture was dull without pronouncing it 'boring' and something that could be 'gleaned at a cursory glance'.

“What is your subject then?” John said pressing forward and noting her delighted response.

“General Practice,” she replied that soft smile back on her face. She tucked a soft brown strand of hair behind her ear while tapping her pen lightly on the edge of her desk. “You?”

“Trauma Surgery.”

Her eyebrows raised in that way John liked. It meant only good things, impressed, open to suggestion maybe, he'd have to see.

“I'm John,” he said offering his hand in a secretive kind of way.

“Sarah” the girl replied taking his hand lightly in the imitation of shaking hands but without the gesture to give them away. “didn't realise people still shook hands out side of job interviews.”

John let a laugh rumble in his throat in a way he knew was particularly endearing. “No, they don't really do they? Perhaps we should bring it back. Make the handshake cool again.”

Sarah smiled leaving the pen out of her mouth for the moment and barely retracted her hand so that John could still feel the warmth of her. Definitely open to suggestion.

“We could do that.”

John let his hand linger near hers too, adjusting slightly in his seat so their legs brushed in a way that he knew would make her wonder if it was accidental. He'd played this game before, all the steps were hot-wired into his brain. If it wasn't that the outcome was exciting, he'd find the chase a little bit dull.

_Promiscuous, then..._

John faltered. Luckily Sarah did not seem to notice his hesitation. Promiscuous he'd said, why did that grate at John slightly, why was he worrying about something a stuck-up condescending git had said to him in their one and only meeting? So what if he slept with a few people, what two consenting adults did in their own time was their own business, no one else's. Even if the noises of it were heard by people in the vicinity. John hoped he didn't blush as he remembered Sherlock had heard him with Molly, complimented him on it, even. Except now John thought about it he wasn't sure it was a compliment.

“Probably a bit forward of me,” John started with subtle twinge of shyness and self-deprecation, “But would you like to go for a drink?”

“Oh,” Sarah said, eyes sparkling. “Um, yes, yes that would be lovely.”

“Shake on it?” John said offering his hand again,

“Why not?” She said taking his hand. He allowed his fingers to curl around hers gently before stroking the back of her hand with his thumb rhythmically, “All the cool kids are doing it.”

On the desk, John's phone buzzed.

\--

He managed to avoid his phone until he got home and had once again, he told himself, managed to almost forget about Sherlock entirely. If he had, and not just deluded himself into thinking he had, it would have been some small miracle. Especially considering how the man's voice had flitted through his head as he took Sarah's number and promised to call her to arrange their date. John was becoming increasingly concerned about how Sherlock's presuming narrative had spelled out what appeared to be a desperate act for distraction, and just how much that bothered him. He'd had no qualms about how he lived his life before, he had fun and no one was getting hurt but something had stopped him taking Sarah out straight from the lecture and then to his bed that very evening. He could have, he'd seen the potential; the slight look of disappointment on her face as he said he'd call once he knew about his schedule, the way she'd lingered slightly upon saying good bye as though he might change his mind. It was tempting, but in the last moments, namely when he was sliding his phone back into his pocket and trying to ignore the flashing LED indicating a new message, he'd suddenly gone off the idea.

John went straight to the kitchen and set about making tea. It was a nervous habit he'd picked up from his grandmother. She was always making tea whenever the slight mention of emotional upheaval slipped into conversation. “Tea!” she would cry and dash from the room to arrive with steaming mugs once the subject had passed. The perfect combination of comfort and avoidance.

John paused. Setting his mug down and neglecting to put a tea bag in just yet. Had he just called his blossoming obsession with Sherlock's appraisal of him an emotional upheaval? He shook his head slightly in the empty room.

“Idiot.” he muttered.

“Who is?” Bill said entering the room. He was wearing pyjamas and had bare feet. Night shift on his placement, John thought.

“No one, it's nothing. Tea?” John said waving his hand before reaching for the tea bags finally.

“Please.” Bill said. “God awful shift last night. Remind me why I want to be a nurse again?”

“Because you didn't have the grades to be a doctor?” John suggested sarcastically, reaching for another mug from the cupboard just as the kettle finished boiling.

“Fuck that!” Bill exclaimed taking a seat at the kitchen table piled high with envelopes addressed to previous tenants and a few plates with toast crumbs stacked at one end. “I'll leave the difficult stuff to you lot, I'd rather actually interact with my patients outside of morning rounds.”

“Fair one.” John nodded pouring water into the mugs and stirring them. “Still, plenty of interaction for me too once we sign up.”

“Indeed.” Bill accepted his cup and sipped slowly before determining it too hot and placing it on top off what appeared to be a marketing circular.

“So what was so awful?” John asked sitting in the chair opposite Bill, his own mug cradled in his hands.

“This lunatic was terrorising the ER” Bill said gesturing emphatically, “high as a kite but sharp as a tack. Bit of a dick actually, kept saying horrible things to all the staff trying to help.”

“Drug-induced?” John asked sipping his tea as it cooled slightly.

“I don't know. You could tell he was high, pupils the size of dinner plates, track marks on his arms when he took his jacket off. But it was the guy with him we were treating.”

“Overdose?” John asked, unsurprised.

“Yea,” Bill nodded gravely with an air of someone who had seen it before, “Get a fair few in cus of where we are, you know? Anyway, his mate was fine but this guy just going off and rambling about inefficient we all were. Didn't even really seem to care about his mate, just kept yelling about needing to see his tattoo. Kept trying to launch himself at our patient so in the end we had to have the security guards whack him one. Even a black eye didn't slow him down the drugged up twat. Threatened to call the police but, and get this” Bill leant forward so his arm were resting on the table in front of his tea, “He said the police were even more incompetent than doctors and swished off out of the doors like he was royalty or something.”

“Nightmare.” John said nodding.

“You're telling me,” Bill said sipping his tea, “I had to write up all the paper work too since it was me he was yelling at. Waste of a perfectly valuable learning experience really.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment drinking their tea.

“So you got plans tonight?” Bill said.

“Nah,” John replied taking his empty cup to the sink, “Was just going to stay in. Catch up on my log book, you know?”

“Three Campuses staying in on a Friday night?” Bill feigned shock, “unheard of! You got a bird coming over?”

John laughed, “Nothing so exciting” he joked and then cursed himself silently for the word.

“Come on John, I live vicariously through your exploits! I don't get time with this stupid placement, I'm on again tonight. More drunks and degenerates in A&E! What about Molly? You could call her again right?”

John winced, thinking of Mike. “No, that won't be happening.”

“That bad?” He pulled a face and passed John his empty mug.

“Ha! No, I just don't think Mike would appreciate it.” he raised his eyebrows suggestively.

“Ah. Got ya.” Bill stretched and stood, “Right, better get going.”

\--

What occurred to John later was that he almost got away with it. He might have done if his phone hadn't buzzed again while he was writing in his log book and he'd opened the message before thinking.

_Must be a girl. Next to you probably. Maybe the lecture is exciting. - SH_

Then,

_If your usual tricks didn't work on said girl, I might have something exciting for you to do tonight. - SH_

Damn. Smarmy git. John threw down his pen and bit his lip briefly before typing his one word response. One word that would lead to all manner of trouble that evening. Trouble that, unfortunately for John, he found much, much more exciting that ringing Sarah to arrange their date.

_Where? - JW_


	3. Chapter Three

Just like a cadaver. John keep thinking it. It's just like a cadaver in the morgue, just another body that had been donated to science. Not a murder victim. Not an old man with his head blown apart, not a fragile soul with a gun in his hand.

“What the hell Sherlock?” John said, his voice a terse whisper as he eyed the DI.

“It's a body, John.” 

He'd been this way since he'd appeared outside John's house a few moments after sending the text-- as if he knew John would agree even before he did. He'd barely said a word as he swept John into a taxi and given the driver the address to a large house on the outskirts of London. John had tried asking what was going on but Sherlock had refused to give details. A small smile played about his lips as he said, “Its more exciting this way.” Then cocked an eyebrow before growing silent once again.

“I can see that it's a body.” John snapped. He wasn't just angry about the body. He'd seen bodies before of course, all the time in practical classes, though never one that had committed suicide. No, it wasn't just that. Sherlock had dragged him away from his house and his log book, refused to give him answers as to why and all the time maintained this haughty look of derision that suggested John didn't quite get it. When they'd arrived at the house the DI had ushered them on to the scene under some yellow tape updating Sherlock on the circumstances. 

“Arthur Denney” he'd said, “Gun shot wound to the head, found him holding the gun. The bullet and fingerprints match.”

“Arthur Denney?” John asked suddenly, “The actor?” 

The policeman nodded.

“And?” Sherlock had snapped his long coat flapping around him, the eyebrow cocked again as he shot a side glance at John.

“And what?” 

“Come on Lestrade, you and I both know I wouldn't be here if it was just a suicide.” A faint smile played about his mouth once again and John was sure he could see a hint of amusement which became especially prominent as Lestrade replied. 

“You'll see,” he said turning to go round behind the house, “You're going to like this one.” 

They ducked into a fairly hidden doorway hidden behind a thicket. There appeared to be a small shed behind it but as they went through they were led down some stairs into a concrete lined cellar, a dim bulb hanging in the socket casting a vague pool of light over the scene.

"The kicker is that the door was locked from the inside, no sign of forced entry and no one was seen going in or out. Just your sort of thing right?" 

Sherlock pushed past John and the DI swiftly and entered the room, pulling latex gloves from his pocket as if he was in the habit of carrying them around.

All of this took place in the few seconds before John looked down at the dead man. The back of the man's head a messy exit wound and there was an almost perfect circle of the entry wound at his temple It was then he'd asked Sherlock what the hell was going on. 

“Why are we looking at it?” He said as Sherlock stooped over the old man hands clasped behind his back as his eyes darted about.

“Case.” Sherlock replied curtly. 

“Right.” John pursed his lips and folded his arms over his chest. He widened his stance slightly and adopted what he hoped was a look of stubborn annoyance.

Sherlock hummed in his throat as he stood upright once again. “Not enjoying yourself John?” he asked without turning around. 

“Can't say I am.” John replied gritting his teeth.

“Pity. Quite exciting isn't it? Though not as exciting as... coursework?” He paused bending lower “yes,” he said, stretching the word slightly as though distracted, “that's what you were doing. No date tonight.” he flicked his gaze to John as he paced around the body and surveyed the room, “Could have though, but you didn't.” 

“I had work to do.” John snipped.

“And yet here you are.” Sherlock purred bending down to inspect the hole in the floor where the toilet would have gone, about six inches from the wall.

God. The man's voice was a deep rumble that shivered through John's gritted teeth. He could feel it vibrate through him but it did nothing but annoy him.

“Don't know why.” John skipped his foot over the concrete floor and kicked up dust. “What is this place anyway?” 

But Sherlock wasn't listening.

“Bomb shelter.” the DI said from behind John finally, turning his attention away from Sherlock. “Turns out Arthur Denney was rather paranoid, he was having this place constructed until a few weeks ago, only the toilet and the supplies and it'd be complete. Changed his mind all of a sudden and left it unfinished. Guilty conscience maybe.” 

“Guilty conscience?”

“Gavin Thomas was released last week, acquitted.” 

“Ah. So you think--” 

“Thomas?” Sherlock said his brow creasing slightly in a faint frown. Obviously he didn't like it when John knew something he didn't. 

“The man who was accused of killing Denney's first wife.” John explained with a smirk, watching Sherlock's face shimmer with thunder. “He was convicted 10 years ago and released last week after his appeal. He convinced the courts he couldn't have done it. So, Denney's guilt must have caught up with him and--” 

Sherlock nodded once and swept from the room with a billow of wool. 

“Sherlock--” John said following behind with a long stride trying to catch up. 

“Come along, John.” Sherlock replied not slowly, “We need to talk to Mrs Denney the second.” 

John heard the DI sigh in resignation. He'd seen this before apparently, 

“Do you just let him run around crime scenes like this?” John asked, “Surely its not normal to let students parade around and question people.” 

“Not normal, no.” the DI replied pulling out a cigarette and lighting it, “But god help me he's good. You know him, you've seen it.” 

“Actually,” John said in a low voice, for no reason at all, “I barely know him, we met once, a week ago, for ten minutes!” He let out a laugh that startled even him and he saw Sherlock register the noise but choose not to respond. 

“Bet ten minutes was plenty.” A knowing smile crossed the DI's face and he raised the cigarette to his lips again before blowing a puff of magnanimous smoke into the air. 

“Yeah.” 

Sherlock had come to a stop beside an old woman. Her peach cardigan was pushed up around her elbows and she appeared to be teetering on the edge of tears. John felt a raw fear jump up to his throat as she noted that Sherlock's expression did not change and the full verbal assault that was his usual conversation style was about to be directed with full force in the direction of Mrs Denney. 

“Aren't you going to stop him?” John asked

“Lestrade!” a voice came from their left turning his focus before he could reply to John's plea, “Call on the radio for you, says its urgent.” 

“Sorry,” Lestrade said in John's direction, “Could you just... make sure he doesn't give anyone a break down or something, I'll be back in a second.” 

With that the DI flicked his unfinished cigarette to the ground, stamped the lit end into submission and jogged off in the direction of the officer. John stood for a few seconds contemplating he next move and resenting the implication that Sherlock was his responsibility. He was jostled from his thoughts only a moment later when he heard Sherlock's voice, 

“Please, I don't need to know your life story, I only asked if your husband appeared to be suicidal before today.” 

“So,” John said loudly moving to Sherlock's side and giving him a quick jab in the ribs. He felt how slender the man was below his coat, but solid and warm—why did that surprise him? “Mrs Denney” he held out his hand, “I was a great fan of your husband's, I'm terribly sorry.” 

The woman turned to John with a sad kind of relief. 

“He made some wonderful films.” She replied nodding as if in agreement, “So much laughter, for so many people.” 

John smiled a thin smile, enough to offer his concurrence without offending. Sherlock looked on, baffled. “I heard he'd signed up for a new movie.” John said. 

“Well, yes.” She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief clasped in her hand, “I mean, why would he kill himself when he was making a new movie? He loved making movies, even now.” 

“So you don't think he killed himself?” John asked.

“Mr--?” the woman said setting him with a glare that did not sit comfortably on her soft features.

“Watson.” 

“Mr Watson, my husband would no sooner killed himself than kill you. I know what they are saying, about Jean and all that terrible business. But my husband didn't kill his first wife, and he did not kill himself. I don't know how someone got into that room and out again but I know that it happened.” 

“Great. That's it.” Sherlock said next to John with a huff, that slightly confused look still hanging on his eyes. 

“Sherlock.” John admonished with narrowing eyes, the taller man did not soften his face but did not move away. “We're very sorry for your loss Mrs Denney. Your husband's movies have always been some of my favourite, at least they will live on in his stead and people will keep loving them.” 

“Would you like to see some things from his movies?” The woman asked straightening herself and pulling her sleeves down and smoothing her hem. 

John saw Sherlock open his mouth to protest but John beat him to it. “We'd love to.” 

John turned to follow Mrs Denney into the house and caught Sherlock staring at him. 

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked. 

“Being nice.” John shrugged, “She just lost her husband Sherlock, surely that brain of yours can work out that she needs someone to be nice to her, she wants to show us things, we go look at things. Not only is it polite but its the right thing to do.” 

Sherlock's face twisted into that confused look again as though he was trying to work something out. In the short time John had known him he had never seen that look before but he knew enough to know that it must not happen that often. 

“You stay here if you want.” John said, enjoying the upper hand he had managed to gain over the strange perplexing man, “but I'm going inside.” 

John was standing over a set of gag walking sticks when Sherlock joined them. His face was still stubborn but he'd relinquished his position and followed them anyway, John couldn't help the smug smile creep onto his lips. 

“These are from Summer at the Vineyard.” 

“Ah yes,” John said, “I remember, it gives out on him and he falls head first into the mixing barrel...” he laughed, “at the woman stomping the grapes...”

“Comedy, John?” 

He turned to Sherlock and saw the judging look on his brows, “Yes Sherlock, very funny comedy. From the seventies.” 

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow once and wandered off to look at the other glass cabinets in the room. 

“Sorry about him.” John said apologetically, “He's...” but he shrugged, what word was there for Sherlock Holmes? More and more John was realising that apologising for him and protecting people from him had become his sole task for the day. More than that, he realised he wasn't despising it as much as he should. 

“Don't apologise for him dear, they're all difficult sometimes. Arthur was the same, got quite in a mood on occasion. I'm sure you know all the ways to cheer him up, we always know how to cheer up our men hm?” She patted him arm and turned to the next cabinet holding a pair of shoes. “These were from Vienna Incognito, they were specially made to allow him to lean so far over without falling, see the mechanism on the heel?” 

“Mrs Denney, me and Sherlock, we're not--” 

The lady turned to him, her head tilted slightly. He spotted Sherlock on the other side of the room quite oblivious to the conversation. Still, John felt he really ought to correct the assumption before it went too far and Sherlock thought John had encouraged it. 

“We're not together.” he explained, “He's just my...” Friend? Mate? Person I've met once and then followed on to a bloody crime scene? “Colleague.” 

Mrs Denney's mouth twitched up at one corner in a knowing sort of way that irritated John and made his blush for some unknown reason and then nodded once. Lestrade chose that moment to catch up with them. 

“Are you done here Sherlock?” He said eyeing John and smiling slightly at Mrs Denney's obvious un-broken countenance. 

“Yes, There is nothing of interest here.” Sherlock said waving a dismissive hand over the letters Arthur Denney had written to famous directors. “Are you done, John?” 

John fixed Sherlock with a stare than had been know to send even Bill running for cover. “Yes. Thank you Sherlock.” he turned back to the grieving recently-widowed woman, “Thank you very much for showing he everything.” he said softly, holding out a hand to shake hers, “Again, I'm very sorry.” 

He and Sherlock fell in to step as they ducked under the yellow police tape. 

“Suppose that caring bit comes in handy, being a doctor. Or doctor-in-training. Probably something you picked up looking after your alcoholic sibling.” 

“How did you-- no, never mind. Don't tell me how, probably my mobile phone or the way I pronounce Marmalade.” John giggled. 

“Marmalade?” Sherlock asked with a side glance, “When did you say marmalade?” 

The serious look on Sherlock's face made John giggle harder and he heard Sherlock join in as he caught the ridiculousness of it. “We can't giggle” John said trying to remain sensible, “It's a crime scene.” 

“Quite.” Sherlock replied snapping out of his laughter almost as suddenly as he had fallen in to it. 

“It's not a 'bit'.” John said after a moment's silence as they made there way to the main road. “I genuinely was interested in that stuff, I like his movies. Not my favourites, its no James Bond but, they're funny.” 

“James who?” Sherlock said, his nose wrinkling. 

“Bond. James Bond.” John said and smirked, “Really? Never heard of him? Clever Sherlock Holmes, know-it-all brainbox all-round pompous git hasn't heard of something?” 

“Not relevant.” Sherlock said throwing a hand into the air only a second before a taxi appeared as if by magic. “I probably deleted it.” 

“Do I want to know what you mean by that?” John asked as he shuffled into the seat of the taxi. 

“My brain is like a hard drive.” Sherlock explained taking a seat next to him. “Baker street” to the driver and then, “I deleted what isn't necessary or relevant to the work I do.”

“And the work you do is...” 

“Come on John, you've just seen it. You know what I do.” 

“Terrorise widows and mope around perfectly interesting collections of film memorabilia?” John skewed a glance from the corner of his eye and saw Sherlock's mouth twitch.

“I am the world's only consulting detective. I invented it. I aid the police, mostly Lestrade, when they find themselves on investigations that are otherwise out of their depth.” Sherlock pulled his phone from his pocket and suddenly became very interested in it, “Which is always.”

“That is... mental.” John said shrugging, because he didn't know what else to do. “So, what's at Baker street? Another murder?” 

“No John, of course not. One is quite enough for the day.” Though his face suggested that it probably wasn't. 

“What then?” 

“My flat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for all the love you have shown. I really really enjoy reading your comments, they inspire me to carry on. 
> 
> Points, Jam and Tea for whoever can tell me which TV show I unashamedly borrowed this murder scenario from. Answer in the comments, but don't give away how it was done! 
> 
> Of course, John and Sherlock will do it in their own special way and I look forward to their developing relationship. I just like having them be snarky at each other for a while before all the mindless shagging starts. 
> 
> Updates soon!


	4. Chapter Four

There were seventeen step leading to Sherlock’s front door. John knew this because he counted each one as he climbed slowly behind Sherlock. It felt strange to be whisked indoors, to feel the confines of walls around them. They had been on neutral ground so far. Molly's house, on the street, even the crime scene--though Sherlock was clearly at home there--were all spaces belonging to neither of them and, consequently, they felt safe. John was entering Sherlock's space now, a place reflecting only him and John knew if it was anything like Sherlock's demanding presence in person, he was in for a shock.

"When did you move here?" John found himself asking, "I thought you lived with Molly?"

"Yes, well." Sherlock said stopping at the top of the stairs in front of a green door with a glass panel, "Some people don't like being woken up by the violin at three in the morning I suppose. I know the landlady here and she was happy to let me move in."

"And she doesn't mind the violin?" John laughed picturing the scene of the small Molly being woken in the middle of the night to Sherlock playing and kicking off about it in her ferocious little way.

"No, not as much." His eyes scanned John as he stepped up to meet him before opening the door on the flat.

It was comfy, dressed in dark colours for the most part, a collection of the strangest objects John had seen were littered about the place and he felt if had stood to process them all, he would have been silent for quite a while. Instead, his eyes lingered on the music stand and the violin case by the window. It seemed too sentimental really, for Sherlock, standing by the window, watching the world go by as he played beautiful music. Of course, for all John knew, he could be terrible. However, he suspected if that were the case he'd have 'deleted' the inclination a long time ago as irrelevant. It still didn't seem particularly important to consulting detective work but John presumed it was something started in childhood and was now too firmly ingrained.

The flat wasn't what he had been expecting, it was almost cozy. The violin wasn't the only thing out of place, various cushions and pillows were littered about the sofa and the two chairs by the fireplace which read as too domestic in John's opinion for the forthright and slightly brash man he had become acquainted with, but then his eyes drifted over the skull on the mantelpiece and the stack of letters knifed into the wood and that made sense, so he shrugged it off.

"Nice." John said moving to flop down on Sherlock's couch.

He heard the noise of assent in Sherlock's throat as he rounded the divider and into the kitchen. "I suppose I should offer you tea or something." Sherlock said with an air of being put-upon.

"I can do it if you'd like." John said feeling the need to soften Sherlock's mood. He hadn't known the man long but he could already tell soothing his moods, like apologising for him, was a full time job. Once again he was surprised to find it didn't bother him as much as it should.

"That would be agreeable. Coffee for me."

John stood and walked into the kitchen. He found Sherlock sat at his the table in front of a microscope and slides with-- John did not want to know what that was. He busied himself with making their drinks, opening and closing cupboards until he found mugs and teabags and coffee.

Once finished, he passed Sherlock his mug, waited half a second for him to look up and take it from him before setting it down with a short sigh.

Sherlock was silent as John drank his tea but John has never felt the need to chatter on endlessly and the space and the calm away from Bill's madness and Mike's scolding and his log book was a welcome relief.

By the time his cup was empty John found Sherlock's cup still full, gone slightly cold. He glanced at the strange and alluring figure across the table from him. Sherlock was completely still, his attention focussed on his microscope.

John's eyes lingered on an errant curl at Sherlock's temple and his fingers ached to reach out and flatten it back into place. What was he thinking? Perhaps Mike was right when he said John's libido was dangerous, he couldn't spend a few hours in anyone's company without feeling the urge to try it on. If the heterosexual vibe hadn't pulsed from Bill and Mike almost violently when he'd met them, he probably would have tried it on with them too.

Suddenly Sherlock flung himself back into his chair, his hands dragging through his hair that curl flattening momentarily as John had wanted before springing out at an even more extreme angle.

“Just paracetamol.” Sherlock complained gesturing wildly to his microscope slide.

John's expression must have said it all because for once, Sherlock elaborated without questions.

“Tablet, found in the bunker. Thought it might have been a drug or something disguised to look like ordinary painkillers, but it wasn't.”

“Okay.” John said narrowing his eyes slightly, “Am I supposed to understand what’s going on here? The man shot himself, he didn’t overdose.”

Sherlock shot him a look that suggested John was a drooling idiot and sighed extravagantly.  

“You don’t think he killed himself?” John asked

“Obviously.”

From the look on Sherlock’s face, asking any further questions would make him the biggest idiot alive so John chose not to. He picked up the cups from the table and made to put them in the sink. He wasn’t fastidiously tidy usually but he still had that uncertainty that came with being in someone else’s house, however at home Sherlock seemed him to want to make himself.

“So...” John said releasing the washed cups to the draining board to dry.

“I’ll have to go talk to this Thomas person I think. Your knowledge about the pop culture surrounding this case might be useful.” Sherlock said suddenly jumping to his feet, “you’re welcome to come along if you want unless you have something more exciting to be doing?”

He cocked that suggestive eyebrow at John again. At that moment, John saw a flicker of something familiar in Sherlock’s eyes. He’d seen it a million times before but he hadn't really be expecting to see it here.

“Is this all you do then?” John said moving around the table and and following Sherlock through to the living room.

“Is what all I do?” Sherlock wandered to the window, bringing his violin case to rest on the back of the leather chair by the fire and unclipping the fastenings.

“Run around crime scenes, analyse tablets at your kitchen table?” John said with a smirk that suggested he was being ever so slightly sarcastic.

“There are more elements to it than that.” Sherlock said stopping his careful retrieval of the violin for a moment to look over at John, “Why? should there be something else?”

“People generally tend to have other things outside of their job, yeah.” John said folding his arms across his chest.

“Really?” Sherlock said sounding genuinely surprised and bored all at once, “What do people have then, in their lives?”

“Girlfriends, boyfriends that sort of thing.” John replied licking his lips, dancing around this with Sherlock certainly wasn't what he’d intended to do when he’d come up to the flat but watching the detective’s dexterous fingers handle the bow from the case and apply resin to it stirred something in his belly. And John ‘Three Campuses’ Watson’s default seemed to be flirtation and seduction.

“Dull.” Sherlock replied his attention back on the violin.

“You don’t have a girlfriend then?” John said moving forward slightly to the front of the chair.

“Girlfriend? No...” Sherlock’s tone was distracted, his attention fully on the instrument in his hand, plucking strings and tuning it in. “Not really my area.”

“You have a boyfriend then?” John shot back instantly, “Which is... fine by the way.”

“I know its fine.” Sherlock said looking up at John directly, his gaze boring into his face. His eyes seemed to scan John for something momentarily.

“So you’re... unattached.” John purred moving to lean against the side of the chair close to Sherlock, hip pressed against the furniture his body angled towards the detective. “Like me.”

Sherlock stiffened slightly and, gripping the violin and the bow in one hand, swept quickly past John brushing his shoulder as he passed. “Not quite like you.”

John turned to follow Sherlock’s path around his desk to the other window. “What the hell does that mean?”

“I consider myself married to my work John.” Sherlock explained looking out of the window resting the violin on his shoulder, “I do not require... excitement, like you. My work is enough. Flattered though I am by your interest.”

“No.” John countered, backtracking. “No, I just meant--”

“I know what you meant.”

John dithered slightly, this wasn't how it was supposed to go, people didn't really say no all that often. Not that he was cocky, ok, maybe a bit, but he certainly didn't expect it to always go in his favour. Sherlock had invited John up to his flat, he’d text him out of the blue, he’d gotten his number from his friend, there were clear signs, had John really read them all wrong?

“I’ll be in contact once I’m secured an appointment to talk to Thomas” Sherlock said, by way of dismissal it would seem.

And that was that. End of conversation. Sherlock swung the bow up to the violin and began to play. John stood for a few moments before nodding once and retrieving his coat from the kitchen.

“Right well,” John said to Sherlock’s back, “I’ll be off.”

He lingered for a moment but when Sherlock didn’t respond he shrugged on his coat and left the flat. Pulling out his phone he fingered a text to Mike as he went.

_You, me, Terry, Bill, night out. Tonight. You in?_

He had a response before he was back on the street.

_Yea, sounds good._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting, I changed the track of this story because I originally wanted it to be a bit quicker than it is not going to be. I can't make them have plain sailing ofc. So now I have a number of chapters in mind to a reasonable stopping point, if I feel like continuing it after that I'll probably do a sequel. No promises though. 
> 
> My post-reichenbach fic A Song For You will also be updated today/this week. :)


	5. Chapter Five

“So what brought this on?” 

Mike and John were the only two sitting at a long table in a quiet bar. Bill had disappeared following a blonde he’d met while playing the pub quiz machine and Terry was always bouncing from group to group having become somewhat of a social chameleon. 

“What brought what on?” John asked innocently as he knocked back his fifth beer of the evening. “Nothing’s been brought on.” 

“John.” Mike said swirling the remaining beer in his glass, “I haven't seen you drink this heavily since first year.”

“S’a good year.” John said, slurring slightly. He sighed, maybe Mike was right. “Just, fancied a night out. You want another beer?”

“Sure, in a minute. John, seriously, something’s pissed you off. Does this have anything to do with what we talked about earlier?” 

John frowned. “Which bit?” 

“When I spoke to you about... You know, Molly.”

“Oh!” John exclaimed with relief, “No no... not that. You were right.” 

There was silence for a few moments as John fiddled with his empty glass and noted once again a feeling of shame descend over him.

”So...” Mike said, looking for a new conversation starter. “Did Sherlock ever contact you?” 

“What?” John said, far too quickly to be passed off as innocent. “Sherlock? Holmes?” 

Mike grinned. “Yes John, the one I said texted me about you, wanted your number...” 

John felt the blush creep up his face as he recalled his fumbling attempt to seduce the consulting detective hours previous. 

“Yea, he got in touch.” John wasn’t sure how much of Sherlock’s work for the police should be advertised, wasn’t sure whether skulking about murder investigations and talking to witnesses was something that should be widely broadcasted so he didn’t elaborate. 

“Oh John.” Mike said, a crease forming between his brows with a look that was becoming all too familiar. “You didn’t.” 

“Didn’t what?” John said before cottoning on, “Oh, no.... God no.” He left out the bit where he’d tried and failed. 

“Good.” Mike said, eyes darkening slightly. “I wouldn’t advise that you do.” 

“Really?” John asked, “Why’s that?” 

Mike drained the last of his beer and slid the empty glass over to John. “He’s just, got a reputation.” 

John barked a small laugh. “So have I.” 

“No, no you misunderstand,” Mike insisted. “Not _that_ kind of reputation, a you kind of reputation he’s... he’s an addict John.” 

“What?” John said clinking the two empties together, fingers slotting over the rims ready to be picked up. 

“Hm.” Mike hummed conspiratorially, “Cocaine mostly as the rumours go. Bit of heroin too though by all accounts. Hey, don’t look so disappointed mate, not like you were getting involved with him, right?” 

“What? No.” John said standing and sliding the glasses from the table, “We’re just... friends, I guess. I’ve only met him twice.” 

“Ok.” Mike said with a slight nod and a sideways glance, “If you say so.”

John took a deep breath. “Same again?” He raised the glasses in gesture. 

“Yeah.” 

As John made his way to the bar for his sixth pint of the evening he began to feel unnaturally angry at Sherlock for something unnameable. Not the rejection, John was almost relieved he hadn’t returned his affections, god know what would have happened if he’d slept with him. But Sherlock’s disdain and condescension seemed even more misplaced given his own bad habits. How dare he look down on how John chose to live his life when his own actions were far worse. _I do not require... excitement like you._ No, John thought, You bloody well don’t, we all know how you’re getting your kicks. 

He suddenly had the overwhelming urge to confront Sherlock. He almost felt disappointed in him, let down that the obviously brilliant man he’d been getting to know was now revealed to be an addict. He felt cheated, like it somehow took the shine off his otherwise sparkling persona. But he pushed down the urge and ordered another drink, he wouldn’t let Sherlock Holmes ruin his evening without even being there, this was supposed to be a drink to forget the strange detective, not dwell on his obvious faults.

***  
About an hour later found Mike and John in conversation about a lecture, or more precisely, about their lecturer and the funny way he called people out for sleeping through early morning classes. 

"Hey TC," Bill said coming up behind John and slapping him on the back, he had seemingly lost the blonde he’d been chasing and was followed, instead, by two familiar faces. "Mike, look who I found wandering around." 

Molly stood behind him, a sheepish smile on her face as she glanced over at their table, next to her, looking ever so slightly annoyed in John's direction, was Sarah Sawyer.

“John.” Molly said, nodding in his direction, not cold but keeping a respectable distant that John was sure was for Mike’s benefit.

John tipped his once again empty glass at her and tried to avoid the wealth of judgement from Mike’s stare.

"Do you guys know Sarah?" Molly asked taking a seat next to Mike and shuffling in close to him along the booth so her friend could sit down. His expression brightened at this and he looked positively happy when Molly turned to smile at him.

“Yeah, we met.” Said John attempting his Three Campuses smile but missing the mark. 

“Today in fact.” Sarah said, the irk ever presence in her voice. 

Molly looked between the two and seemed to ponder whether or not she thought John had somehow slighted her friend, as ever she came to the natural conclusion. 

“Have you guys...” 

“No, no.” Sarah said in a rush, “Not yet, I mean, Not ever, well not not ever but--oh god, get me a drink.” 

John managed to smile this time. It would appear not everyone at this table considered him something of a sexual predator, in fact, Sarah still seemed quite keen.

“Sarah saved me from a boring lecture today.” John explained, “For which I probably do owe her a drink. What’ll you have?” 

“White wine.” Sarah said her shoulders visibly lowering in relief, “Please.” 

“Coming up.” John nudged his seat backwards noisily and rose to his feet, he was beginning to feel the affects of the alcohol but managed to maintain his balance through some kind of miracle. “Anyone else?” 

There were murmurs of no around the table from those that were paying attention while Mike and Molly were already locked in conversation and John thought it might be a mistake to interrupt to see if Molly wanted a drink. It was better this way, only buying Sarah a drink, it was time to get back on track and shake off the strange feeling of guilt that had been following him around since he’d met a certain consulting detective. 

If John slept with Sarah it would bloody well serve Sherlock right for rejecting him. Who did he think he was? Stupid druggie probably couldn’t even have got it up if he wanted to. John cursed inwardly at that, not fair really given that he’d actually had a fairly good time with Sherlock until he’d tried to sleep with him. It was John’s fault really, not Sherlocks, that they’d left things to awkwardly. 

Feeling contrite, John pulled out his mobile and squinted down at the screen. 

_Soyry I tried ot slepe with yuo - JW_

He was pretty sure that didn’t look right but he couldn’t really be bothered to retype.

"Do you want a hand?" Sarah asked, her eyes soft and inviting in a way John couldn't have expected given that he'd failed to call as promised. 

"Sure" he replied smiling, this time hitting his Three Campus standard perfectly. 

They made their way around tables without finding occasion to come face to face until they were beside the bar. 

"Same again?" The bartender asked with an all too obvious flirtation to his tone. 

"Yes." John answered with barely a glance in his direction for Sarah's sake, "and a white wine." 

The man shot a small look of grievance at Sarah's appearance beside John before leaving to make their drinks. There was a similar look on Sarah's face for a moment before turning to smile at John. 

"So, the rumours are true." 

"Rumours?" John asked innocently, all too aware of where this conversation was headed. 

"I mentioned your name to my friend and all of a sudden everyone had stories about you. Some of them were quite shocking." 

"Is that right?" John handed over his money to the disgruntled barman as their drinks appeared on front of them. He reached for his beer as he pocketed his change and took a long quick swig. His mobile vibrated against his leg.

Taking it out he opened the new message. 

_Six beers John? I suggest you slow down. - SH_

What the hell? John didn’t have to wonder how he knew, Sherlock probably had all kinds of stupid data in that brain of his with regards to how many beers affected textual spelling.

"Mm. And it would appear at least one of them is true." She inclined her head in the bartender's direction. 

John frowned at his text hitting the reply button but not typing just yet. He glanced over his shoulder in the direction of Sarah’s gaze and took another fast sip of his drink, "Which one would that be?"

"It's not just women." 

Ah. She liked the idea. Sarah wanted to be the one to find out if everything was true, and she wanted to be a part of it. John had encountered that before, and he wasn't one to disappoint. He didn't even have to lie.

"No." He confirmed "I bat for both teams you could say. Never saw much point in limiting myself. Leaves out so many possibilities don't you think?"

“Definitely” Sarah breathed, he could feel the effects of his smile working on her, and the effects of the alcohol working on him. 

The drinking they’d done before coming out had settled a warmth into his skin, and the beers he’d had in the bar were tipping him over into the right side of tipsy. He was drunk, and he was mad.

_Mind yuor own bussines, sppose u thikn ur 2 good fr me d yuo?- JW_

“So do you try to seduce everyone you meet?” Sarah asked leaning her body in towards John as she took a small sip of her wine. 

John lifted his head quickly pressing send on his phone and sliding it back into his pocket.

“Only the good looking ones.” He winked. Since when was he so obvious? And why on earth did it seem to be working? 

“Should I be insulted you haven’t tried to sleep with me then?” Sarah asked tipping her head slightly in a subconscious gesture.

“Who... Who says I’m not... now.” John said, his words becoming more slurred and inarticulate. Sarah’s nose wrinkled as she giggled, seemingly endeared with John’s drunken behaviour. 

“Alright Romeo, lets get you sat down, might be time for you to call it a night.” She placed her hand on his arm and let it linger there as she directed him back to the table. She was petite and pretty and sweet. She didn’t seem disappointed he was drunk or tell him to slow down, only seemed concerned for his safety. “Maybe I should call it a night too,” She whispered in his ear as they made their way back, “Care to join me?” 

At that moment John’s phone vibrated against his leg once again but he vehemently ignored it. “Lead the way.” John smiled up at her. 

“Alright guys, it was lovely to meet you all, I’m going to get this drunken fool home now,” Sarah directed at the table once they reached it, keeping a steady arm on John’s waist as he curls his own around her shoulders. “Molly, I’ll text you?”

“Let me know when you get home safe” Molly said. 

“Yeah,” Mike chimed in at her side, “Call us if you need anything.” 

Sarah smiled and looked over at John. He felt her hand brush the small of his back where his shirt touched his belt, “I’ll be fine. See you later!” She firmed up her grip around him, making John instinctively tighten his too and pulled John along after her into the cold night air. 

“Your place or mine?” He asked, his winning smile in place, a beautiful girl on his arm and the warm buzz of alcohol in his veins just enough to keep him from thinking about Sherlock but not enough to affect his performance for the coming attraction. 

“Mine.” Sarah replied and John waved down a passing taxi. Things were definitely getting back to the way they were before consulting detectives came into his life. As he climbed in to the back of the cab john pulled his mobile from his pocket and gave a quick glance at the awaiting text message. 

_Quite the opposite. - SH_

He was about to reply when a small hand folded over the screen. He glanced up as Sarah curved her body inwards to him on the seat, brushed her other hand against his thigh and pressed her lips softly to his.


	6. Chapter Six

What was that incessant buzzing? For god’s sake it was too early for alarms to he going off and he was pretty sure he didn’t have a lecture. Besides, his head was raw, his lips felt dry and his tongue was sticking to the roof of his mouth.

“Shit.” John said, rolling over to find his leg pressed against a warm body.

“Well good morning to you too,” she said.

“Oh god.” John scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’m sorry, but does your room always spin like this?”

Sarah laughed. A punctuating pitch that scratched at John’s head from the inside.

“I think that was your phone.”

John reached over Sarah to retrieve his mobile from the bedside table.

“Morning.” he said, low and gravelly as his face landed close to hers from the angle of his body.

“Hi.”

Their lips brushed briefly, her small hand coming to slide into the hair at his nape. John smiled at they parted feeling his arousal swell against her leg in a none-too-subtle way.

“Ignore it. He’s a chancer.”

John closed his hand around his phone and clicked open the awaiting message as he laid back on his own pillow.

_Thomas on holiday. Set up a meeting with Mrs Thomas. - SH_

John felt a soft hand land on his chest and begin its slow travel southward. She has reached the curve of his hipbone when John laid a hand softly on her wrist and squeezed.  
“Sorry.” He said delicately, “I have to go.”

Sarah smiles and retracted her palm from his skin, “no problem.”

“I had a great time.” John said sliding rom the sheets and stepping into his underwear.

“Yeah, me too.” She sat up against the headboard and pulled the duvet up to cover her naked torso. She looked so enticing that John almost climbed back into the bed until his phone buzzed again.

_Please disentangle yourself from whatever passing distraction you managed to go home with last night. We have to be there at 10. - SH_

John cursed under his breath at the arrogant son of a bitch but carried on getting dressed. As much as he had thought about staying, the irresistible pull of the case was much stronger.

“I’ll call you?” John said leaning down to kiss her goodbye once he’d fully dressed.

“No you won’t.” Sarah laughed, “but it’s fine. I don’t expect anything. You ever want to hook up again feel free but you don’t owe me anything.”

John straightened and shoved his feet into his discarded shoes. “Thanks Sarah, sorry again.”

“Bye John.”

John took the stairs two at a time, trying to quell the nervous energy buzzing in his head right there next to the hangover. He pulled his mobile from his pocket and fingered a text on his way out of the door.

_On my way - JW_

***

John arrived at Baker street at half past nine with coffee. As he suspected the detective took his cardboard cup without so much as a thank you, but John caught the smirk as he tasted it and realised he’d remembered how Sherlock took it.

“So,” John said as he was directed out of the door again by Sherlock who was shrugging into his coat and wrapping a blue scarf about his neck, “Gavin Thomas’ wife?”

“Indeed. Thomas is away at present and while we will need to talk to him eventually I thought a little interview with his wife in his absence might be fruitful.”

“Ok.” John said taking a sip of his coffee and falling into step beside Sherlock as they hit the street.

Sherlock flagged down a taxi quickly and easily and ushered John inside before climbing in behind him and settling on the opposite end of the seat while giving the driver directions.

“So why are we going to see this woman?” John asked, “I mean, Denney shot himself.”

“Did he?”

“Yes Sherlock.” John was ever so slightly annoyed. his hangover over coupled with Sherlock’s usual pomposity was enough to drive him over the edge. “The room was locked from the inside, he had a gun in his hand”

“Well,” Sherlock said smirking, “It pays to be thorough.”

“So you want to know if Thomas provoked him in some way?”

“Hm.” Sherlock turned his head towards the window and pulled out his phone. John rubbed at his temples, it was still too early and his hangover was still too strong to be dealing with Sherlock’s particular brand of crazy.

“He was in a sealed bunker Sherlock. you know, four feet of solid concrete lined with traditional bricks and mortar. All topped off with an armoured plate steel door that locked from the inside. The police had to cut through it with a thermal lance. How the hell could anyone gt in there, kill Denney, make it look like suicide and get out again?”

“They couldn’t” Sherlock said, “Very good John.”p />  
John wasn’t entirely sure what he’d done to warrant a ‘very good’ but he took the praise begrudgingly and slumped down in his seat to nurse his hangover.

They arrived at the small townhouse by the agreed time and John had all but finished his coffee but it had done little to cure the pounding in his head. The awkwardness he felt about coming on to Sherlock the day before seemed to be unfounded. If anything, the detective seemed to have forgotten about it entirely. He hadn’t mentioned it anyway. But John still felt the need to talk to him about it, apologise, prove he wasn’t just some promiscuous sexual predator that couldn’t control himself. The pressure of the whole thing, how to bring it up when Sherlock seemed to reluctant to acknowledge it, only added to the pressure on the inside of his skull.

“If your hangover is going to hinder your contribution perhaps you shouldn’t have come.”

“I’m fine.” John said, wondering what his contribution was supposed to be.

Once they were sat at Mrs. Thomas’ kitchen table, he found out.

Sherlock had paraded in through the house without so much as a greeting and demanded Gavin Thomas’ prison correspondence. He’d been rude and demanding and John understood he was there to be the official Sherlock to Human Interaction interpreter.

he cast Sherlock a reprimanding look and turned towards the woman who was gearing up to give Sherlock an earful.

“Mrs. Thomas.” John said, smiling in a placating fashion. “I’m sorry about him, his terribly posh upbringing must not have included finishing school.”

“Who are you two anyway?” She challenged, “You didn’t make it clear.” She turned more fully towards John and away from Sherlock with one last disparaging glance.

“We...er...Sherlock is a consulting detective with the DIs at Scotland Yard handling the death of Arthur Denney.”

“And you are?”

“I’m...”

“My colleague.” Sherlock said suddenly, “And a doctor.”

“No...no.” John jumped in with a stern face directed at the detective, “I’m training to be a doctor.”

The woman nodded and offered them a cup of tea. John accepted with a smile and Sherlock nodded with growing impatience.

“Terrible business the suicide and everything. I suppose once Gavin was released he just couldn’t live with the guilt anymore.”

“That remains to be seen.” Sherlock said as he accepted the mug from her.

“Well you don’t think Gavin had anything to do with it?” she said passing John his mug, “He’s been away in Wales. God knows he needed to get away from everything. Being locked up for so long for a crime he didn’t commit. Said he wanted to get right out where there were no locks and bars.”

John blew on his tea and smiled, “No one it accusing Mr. Thomas of anything, he said. “We just want to conduct the best investigation we can to ensure no mistake are made.”

She pursed her lips before shuffling over to the corner cupboard. “Mistakes can cause all sorts of trouble. Gavin had been out that night, discussing business with a prostitute” she winced and pulled a shoebox from the cabinet. “he stumbled across Mrs Denney, the first one, on the ground in the alley. She was already dead when he got there but he wasn’t to know. he leaned over her to untie the rope around her neck and of course thats when the police showed up.”

She sat back at the table cradling the box against her. “The girl scarpered of course. So it was his word against superficial evidence. I’m giving this to you because I don’t want anymore fingers pointing at him. If this is what you think you need to put this to rest then take it.”

She pushed the box towards John who lifted the lid to find a stack of letters.

“I don’t know what you expect to find,” the woman said, “It’s just my letters, the lawyers and some confectionary company confirming an order of fudge. Hardly breaking news doesn’t even like fudge. It’s sad that this is all he has of his life for the past ten years...”

“Say that again.” Sherlock suddenly spoke. He’d been watching the scene with rapt interest and close scrutiny but had seemed happy to let John take the lead once he realised the woman responded well.

“This is all he has left--”

“No. No.” Sherlock said with a wave “About the fudge. you said he didn’t like fudge.”

“No,” Mrs. Thomas said rising once again to clear their mugs away before they had even finished, “never has.”

“Right.” Sherlock stood and swept from the room in his customary billow of wool. “Come along John, bring the letters.”

“S-Sorry” John stammered rising to his feet, “Thank you Mrs. Thomas, you’vbe been very helpful. We’ll be in touch.” He shook her hand in farewell thinking faintly of Sarah and then, in turn, his lingering guilt.

At that moment, however, he was more consumed with anger towards his departed ‘colleague’ that whatever residual shame he had concerning their confrontation and his consequent drunken romp with the next person that showed a passing interest.

“What the bloody hell was that?” he yelled as soon as they were both back on the street.

“This case just got exciting.”

The look of pure glee on Sherlock’s face was seriously rubbing John the wrong way. “That woman was nice enough to talk to us at all after everything they’ve been through and you were rude to her.”

“Don’t be naive John.”

“What?” John said, “You can’t possibly think Gavin Thomas did have something to do with the death of Denney’s wife? He was acquitted Sherlock, a judge and jury found his innocent.”

“For gods sake John, the legal system is wrong all the time, it’s run by a bunch of idiots.”

“The prostitute came forward and corroborated his story. Forgive me but I don’t see where you’re getting all of this from.”

“That’s because you’re an idiot too.”

John’s mouth fell open.

“Don’t look like that,” Sherlock replied turning the collar of his coat up against the chill, “Almost everyone is.”

John watched as Sherlock once again flagged down a taxi as though he had magic powers to make them appear and climbed in behind him numbly.

“221b Baker street.”

“Why are we going back to yours?” John asked squeezing his eyes close for a second to dislodge his headache, wishing he could just sleep for a few more hours.

“We’ve got to look at those letters.” Sherlock replied.

“But there’s nothing on them.” John replied, “I read them.”

Sherlock smirked again in that secretive way and pulled out his mobile, typing furiously. “We’ll see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for any errors I am just heading out to work so I will give it another pass over when I get in and correct anything I immediately see. I just couldn't leave you guys hanging when I had it all finished on my hard drive. 
> 
> Comments are to me as triple serial locked room murders are to Sherlock. :)


	7. Chapter Seven

John must have fallen asleep in the taxi because he was softly shook awake once they got there. 

“John.” The deep voice said breaking through his subconscious. 

John had the brief sensation of swimming through honey before opening his eyes.

“If you need to go home...” Sherlock trailed off uncharacteristically 

“M’fine.” John mumbled croakily, he ran a hand through his hair and shuffled forward from the taxi. 

“You’re all rumpled.” 

John looked down. True enough his jeans were just the right side of distressed but then, they always were. It was his shirt that had taken the worst of it. He ran a hand over the placket and creased tails. 

“Suppose I didn’t have a chance to get changed before mad geniuses whisked me away to collect fudge letters.” 

Sherlock smirked at John’s grumpy demeanor and before John could move Sherlock’s hand reached out, flattening down the errant spikes that had sprung forth when he had run his hands through it.

“Sherlock?”His voice was pitched lower than he’d intended and the detective’s name rumbled from him like a caress, as soft as the hand in his hair. 

As suddenly as it had appeared, the hand was retracted. Sherlock straightened and stiffened before about turning and striding towards his front door. 

“Come John. You can shower and make yourself presentable upstairs.” 

john shook himself from the trance-like state that had occurred at Sherlock’s touch. He tried to remind himself that Sherlock was a pompous, know-it-all, _addict_ for Christ's sake. He needed to get a grip of his wandering thoughts and concentrate on the task at hand, not to mention the conversation he needed to have about what had happened. The last thing he needed was for his hormones to fire as they seemed to latch onto Sherlock’s unique and sometimes baffling presence. 

John followed the detective into 221b and tried to focus. _He’s an addict,_ he told himself, _Talk to him, apologise, finish the case and get the hell away._

“Here,” said Sherlock thrusting clothes into John’s arms when he reached the first floor, “You can use the upstairs bathroom.”

“You’re lending me clothes?” 

“Yours are unfit for purpose.” Sherlock shrugged.

“Right.” John held the proffered clothes against his chest and made his way to the small bathroom on the second floor. 

The water was warm and the scent of whatever was in the shower gel he found woke him up instantly. By the time he had dried off and pulled on the soft jersey jogging bottoms and worn t-shirt Sherlock had given him he felt almost normal.

“I do believe that shower cured my hangover.” John said walking through to meet Sherlock in the kitchen. “Oh, Cup of tea, just the bonus I need. Thanks.” 

“This is not for tea.” Sherlock said standing over the boiling kettle with one of Gavin Thomas’ letters in hand, “But you may use it as such once I am done.” He held the letter over the steam rising from the spout and began to peel the stamp from the envelope. It pulled away easily as the heat and moisture compromised the glue bonds. As Sherlock peeled a small block of writing was revealed that was previously hidden from view by the stamp.

“What the hell?” said John peering over when Sherlock set the letter down.

“Well obviously the letters were irrelevant,” Sherlock said at work on the second envelope. “You heard her, he hates fudge. No. Clearly the letters were an excuse, a way to get around the inspection they’d go through.”

“You got all that because he didn’t like fudge?” John said carrying the envelope over to hold under the light so he could read it. “Amazing,” He murmured. 

“Do you know you do that out loud?”

John blushed as Sherlock finished with the third and final letter and came to lay them before John on the table.

“Sorry.” 

“No. No, it’s...” Sherlock leaned over John’s shoulder all but pressed against his back. He was so close John could feel that unexpected warmth from him and he felt oddly comforted. “It’’s fine.” Sherlock finished, “What does it say?” 

John cleared his throat and shuffled his feet slightly but not enough to move further away from Sherlock.

“If the truth comes out we would be ruined. Please keep your silence and I will stand by my pledge to you.” 

John had to squint to read the minuscule writing on the three envelopes and Sherlock’s breath ghosted over his ear as he leaned over making the whole scene very claustrophobic.

“Interesting,” the taller man breathed.

“Sounds like Thomas is cheating on his wife,” John said, “and wanting to keep it a secret.”

Sherlock made an enigmatic and non-committal noise and moved away from John to stride through to the living room. 

“Dreadful business,” John said, “his wife seemed nice too. Why would he cheat on her?” 

“Some people find one partner boring John. Surely you sympathise?” Sherlock was laying on the couch stretched out languidly. 

“That’s...” John shook his head and folded his arms across his chest. “That’s different. I’m not married for one. And the people I sleep with know what it is going in. I’m not deceiving anyone.”

“But you have hurt people.” 

“Well.” The image of Mike’s face when talking about Molly flitted through his head, “I suppose. But--” 

“Then I do not see how it is any different.” 

“No, well you wouldn’t. What with not needing to...” John trailed off, aware he was straying into dangerous territory and that this wasn’t exactly the as he had wanted to broach the subject. 

“Quite right,” Sherlock said unsure whether the sharp edge to his voice was sarcasm or disdain. “I have The Work. The rest is transport.” 

John rolled his eyes. “Your transport needs a different kind of fuel from what I hear.” John widened his stance instinctively, bracing for a fight. “Are you saying that hasn’t hurt people? Hurt you?”

“Well it was only a matter of time before Mike told you I suppose.” Sherlock’s hands were in prayer position below his chin. “And your caretaker tendencies wouldn’t let it go without saying something of course.”   
“I just don’t understand why you need to.” John shrugged, baffled by Sherlock’s avoidance, simple switch and attack. 

“Your mind is placid,” he continued, the obvious defensive manoeuvre prickling his every word. “Mine rebels at stagnation, it is like a rocket trapped on the launch pad racing out of control. Sometimes during gaps between cases I reach such a level of boredom that I need something to quiet my mind. Or else finely hone it to a single task.” 

“There are other ways.” John insisted, “Get a hobby, go out with friends.”

Sherlock suddenly sprang to a seated position on the couch. “So John, are we going to stop dancing around this now? You clearly want to sleep with me and since you disapprove of my current solution to facilitate my thought process, perhaps we should go to my bedroom and you can show me how it is you stave off boredom.”

“I...” John dropped his arms to his sides and let his mouth drop open. he took half a step backwards under Sherlock’s predatory glare and watched as the man rose from the couch in one swift movement. 

Before John could string together words to finish his sentence Sherlock had advanced on him, crowding him up against the partition between the lounge and the kitchen. John’s back was flush against the sliding door and Sherlock was so close yet not touching him. He was framing John’s head with his arms, the sleeves rolled up to reveal bare forearms and, John could just spy, faint traces of track marks disappearing below the folds of cotton. 

“Come on John” Sherlock whispered, his voice a solid rolling baritone against John’s cheek. “Isn’t this how you get your excitement? Don’t you go out at night to seek it, feel that rush as you acquire it and revel in it while it lasts? Doesn’t the heady cocktail of hormones released make everything else fade away? Your heartbeat is raise, I can see it pulsing at your throat.” Sherlock skimmed his finger of John’s pulse point where it beat its erratic rhythm in his neck. “Your pupils are dilated. You’re practically _high_ with the idea.”

Sherlock titled his head and lowered it a fraction of an inch as if to finally close the distance between them. John flinched. It was involuntary but he found all the muscles in his body contract at the split second before impact. Sherlock stopped. 

“No?” He raised an eyebrow. “Gone off the idea not you know I’m a _junkie_? Sherlock pushed off the wall and took a step back. “You’d better go then,” he said, “and let me get back to the way I did things before you appeared.” 

“I-I’m sorry.” John’s breathing was uneven and he had a strange itch in his hands to reach out and pull Sherlock back over him. “I didn’t mean... Look Sherlock, I just meant that.... Drugs are really bad.” he finished lamely. He was skittering over all train of thought, losing grip on what it was he had wanted to say. 

Sherlock let out a small but vicious laugh.

“I’m going to go.” John said gathering his things together. “I wanted to tell you I was sorry I came on to you the other night. But since you have so nicely returned the favour I won’t bother.” 

Sherlock had climbed back on his couch and reclined again seemingly unaffected. John didn’t say anymore just gave one last glance at the detective and left the room. Once again he descended the stairs of 221b with a lingering sense of shame and unfinished business.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is a little shorter than usual but I have already started writing the next one so no fear! Next chapter we get to meet the Mycroft of this 'verse!


	8. Chapter Eight

The next few days were quiet. If John had been the type to use cliches without rolling his eyes he would have suffixed that sentiment with ‘too quiet’. 

Sherlock had not text him out of the blue, had not invited him to crime scenes or witness interrogations and at first, the radio silence was relieving. The added tension to their acquaintance wasn’t entirely welcome and John was happy for the space. 

however, as the days drifted by, John felt the ridged prickle of abandonment and indignation. Sherlock has made his point in a brash yet, frankly, arousing display and the itch John had felt to pull the detective back against him had settled to a gnawing ache in his lower belly. 

As it was, John found a comforting rhythm in his days. His classes were interesting, his log book was up to date and he has found time for a few nights out with the boys, a few of which ended with a late night phone call to Sarah and a rather exciting rendezvous at her place.

John took solace in Sarah’s skin. He sank into her tight warmth and tried not to think about Sherlock pressed up against him or those long dexterous fingers flitting across his throat. He tried, but it didn’t work. He was, however, good at hiding it so when John sped his thrusts and let out a guttural moan and Sarah responded in kind she was under the impression that he was responding to her and only her unaware the force driving his ministrations had a different source. 

The comfortable swing his life had taken was somewhat different to how it was before. He was a repeat bed partner now, having retreated to the comfort of Sarah’s flesh multiple times and the easy distraction it provided. She did not offer the rush, the _high_ as Sherlock had put it, but she was not yet as mundane as having a committed partner.

She came and went at she or John decided and there was no relationship to speak of, no strings or strangling hold on their emotions and they were free to see other people without fear of jealousy or retribution. It was the near-perfect set-up despite the strange yearning John felt for something he could not yet put a finger on. 

John was on his way back to his house from Sarah’s when the car pulled up beside him. He was still buzzing from their early morning romp but heated with the shame of the way Sherlock’s name had ghosted over his lips as he’d shivered into Sarah’s grasp, and felt that raw burn of lusting after a man that was ignoring him because he’d deduced just that. 

The car slowed to a crawl. Sarah’s neighborhood wasn’t a bad one so the idea that the car was curb-crawling flitted briefly through John’s mind before being dismissed just as easily. The tinted window rolled down smoothly on the back door and a clipped voice sounded from within. 

“Mister Watson.” 

At his name, John stopped abruptly mirrored by the car as it too rolled to a standstill next to him. 

“Get in.” 

The door of the car opened and John peeked past the early morning sun into the darkness of the back seat. 

“Why should I?” John asked, folding his arms defiantly. 

“You are an intelligent man Mister Watson, surely you understand the gravity of the situation.” 

John briefly considered that the occupant of the car could have a gun or another weapon of some sort. However, judging by the, frankly, posh appearance of the whole set-up John decided anything as lowly as bodily harm was probably beneath this particular antagonist. More likely, he’d be subjected to torrid mind games or some other kind of life-ruining ministrations. With that,, John did understand the gravity of the situation and got in the car. 

The man on the back seat had the unflappable exterior of a twenties gangster. Complete with three piece suit, watch chain and two-colour oxford brogues. 

“Are you comfortable John?”

“Yes.” 

“You don’t seem very afraid.” 

John squared his shoulders and set his jaw. “You don’t seem very frightening,” he quipped. 

“Brave.” The man replied not missing a beat and with a small smile playing about his lips. “Or stupid?” 

John chose to remain stoic. He wasn’t giving the guy the satisfaction of seeing him rise to the barbs or letting him see him sweat. 

“What is your relationship with Sherlock Holmes,” the man continued, unfazed by John’s blank expression. 

That made John’s eyebrows raise though. Although, he really shouldn’t have been surprised. Nothing like this ever happened before the strange and alluring student detective came into his life so the fact that this was a direct result of his presence didn’t shock John at all.

“I don’t have one.” John said tersely, “We’ve met... three times?” 

“And yet you’ve made sexual advances and you’re solving crimes together.” 

“Sorry.” John said quickly, “What has that got to do with you? Who are you?” 

“An interested party.” 

The man’s sleek auburn hair and unwrinkled suit seemed to wink of an immovable force and John’s fingers twitched to wipe the smug look off his face, never mind the constant threat of torture or whatever else this stranger was capable of. 

“A friend?” he asked instead, trying to ascertain exactly what was going on. 

“The closest this Sherlock has, is capable of having,” the man confirmed. 

“His dealer?” 

“No.” The man pulled a distasteful expression as though the idea was repugnant. “He’d say I was his enemy,” he let out a sharp gust of air that John assumed was a laugh but sounded mocking. “An archenemy. He likes to be dramatic.” 

John almost laughed himself as he pictured Sherlock swanning around in that great coat and stomping around crime scenes terrorising witnesses. Dramatic was right. 

“Do you plan to continue your relationship with Sherlock Holmes?” 

Was this really turning into one of those conversations? Either this guy was being protective or jealous. Either way, John had done nothing to warrant it and besides, he didn’t even know it Sherlock still wanted to associate with him after he’d embarrassed himself. Again. 

“I don’t think that’s any of your business.” 

John pulled out his phone and began to compose a text message, willing this conversation to be over. 

_Coming to Baker Street - JW_

“If you do I could offer you a reasonable sum of money to ease your way.” the man said continuing his calm and somewhat intimidating diatribe. 

“Why?” 

“Because you have student debt.” 

John glanced out of the car’s window and felt his phone vibrate against his leg. They were moving now but the quick glance wasn’t enough to discern where they were going. 

“I meant what for,” he clarified. 

“Information. I worry about him. Constantly.” 

“No.” John pulled out his phone and read while the man digested his refusal. 

_Inconvenient. - SH_

“Loyalty?” The man asked, his face now a blank slate “That was quick. I assume people have told you to stay away from him but I can see from your bed ruffled hair that that’s not going to happen.” 

“My what?” john’s head snapped up. 

“People say you sleep around to cultivate a reputation, because you’re looking for something. Addicted perhaps.” 

The look on John’s face must have given away his reaction and his recognition of Sherlock sentiments the last time they were together echoing back at him through this man’s words. He looked down at him phone and away from the prying eyes now boring into him. He felt the rising anger that came from having far too many people drag him into far too many weird situations and make far too many uncomfortable observations about his private life. 

All the time this anger and frustration was running through his head a small voice was nagging along side it, sounding somewhat similar to Sherlock’s low baritone and reminding him how much more exciting all of this was compared with his old life. 

_Coming anyway - JW_

John settled back in his seat and met the man’s eyes dead on and without fear.

“Ignore them,” the man continued without waiting for John to response. John had to struggled to remember who it was he was supposed to be ignoring. “Perhaps they are unaware you have already found it.” 

The car rolled to a stop and John slid ungracefully towards the door in his efforts to find release from the car. 

“Are we done?” 

The man nodded curtly and gestured with the tip of his umbrella at the door. “Time to make a choice Mister Watson,” he said finally, “And stick to it.” 

Not dignifying that cryptic statement with an answer, John climbed from the car and found himself stood on the pavement in front of 221b. He shot an incredulous look at the car as the door closed and it glided smoothly away down the street. 

John felt his phone vibrate once again in his hand, noticing he hadn’t put it away. 

_Could be dangerous - SH_

Good. Dangerous and a little confrontation was exactly what John could do with right now. Sherlock was in for a world of trouble when John got up there. He rang the doorbell with as much force as he could muster although it did nothing to change the shrill tone’s volume. 

He managed to shake the frown from his face when Mrs. Hudson opened the floor and keep it off long enough for her to direct him up the stairs. It dropped however and he let his false cheeriness slide away as he started to climb the seventeen stairs in the eerie silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. You guys have all been so great about the latest chapters. I love you all so much!! 
> 
> Sorry this chapter took a little longer than the last ones. Considering a lot of the dialogue is from the show, I still found it quite difficult to bend and shape it to fit the characters as they appear in this AU. I hope I did alright, let me know what you think. 
> 
> See you all again soon. - Ophelia.


	9. Chapter Nine.

The dangerous thing, John noted later, was that he didn’t notice what was going on right away. When he reached the flat it was quiet. Sherlock was nowhere to be found and there was no telltale rustling to indicate his whereabouts. 

“Sherlock!” he called into the seemingly empty flat, “No use hiding, I’m here now.” 

John briefly considered that Sherlock could have been out. After all, he had said it wasn’t convenient. But Mrs hudson had let him up and despite sherlock’s otherwise mysterious traits, John had the feeling she kept a watchful eye on him. At least enough to know whether he was in or not. 

Rounding into the kitchen John spied an open door to a short corridor and then a room beyond. The door had been closed at John’s last visit and he had assumed it led to a cupboard and that Sherlock’s room was upstairs. However, as he crossed the kitchen and entered the room he saw just how wrong he had been. 

Fully naked, reclined on his bed and staring at the ceiling was six foot of marble white consulting detective. 

“For God’s s--” John started turning away sharply before he offended Sherlock’s dignity. 

“Oh, Hello John.” Then again, maybe he wasn’t that bothered about his dignity. 

“Could you put something on please?” John asked, “Anything at all.” 

“Why?” the detective asked without moving a muscle, “I’m comfortable.” 

The slight slur to his voice was what alerted John first. It was so unlike the Sherlock he had come to know. A Sherlock who spoke with nothing but precision, if not a little fast on occasion, so John’s immediate reaction was to panic. 

Sherlock’s body remained languid and still on the bed as John risked a glance behind him. sure enough, there on the bedside table was a small plastic sachet and a hospital grade syringe. 

“Sherlock.” John almost yelled again, he was trying to remain calm and remember his training. “What did you take?” 

“A seven percent solution of cocaine.”

To John, Sherlock sounded lucid and was acting completely normally apart from the slight slur and the, er, nudity. 

“I’m thinking.” Sherlock said as if to clarify.

John inspected the syringe. NO blood backed into the barrel, no obvious barbs on the needles, but impossible to tell if it was clean or how much he’d taken. Never mind how long ago.

“It’s fine John,” Sherlock said, his hand moving over to brush John’s shoulder.

Another uncharacteristic movement that only made John panic more.

“It is not fine” John said pinching the bridge of his nose, “You are high. You need to go to a doctor, to the hospital… So many things could go wrong.”

“You are a doctor” Sherlock’s hand dropped from his shoulder and John moved his gaze to Sherlock’s face, avoiding looking anywhere but there and trying to remind himself that he’d encountered naked bodies before and that this one was nothing special.

“I keep telling you, I’m not a doctor yet.” 

“You will know if anything is going on,” Sherlock continued, “Everything will be fine. This isn’t my first time.” 

John dropped on to his knees at the side of the bed to check him over. His eye’s were wide saucers of black, all of that silver-green hidden behind dilated dark. Pressing his fingers to the inside of Sherlock’s wrist and consulting the second hand on his watch, he determined Sherlock’s pulse was a bit too fast but not dangerously so. It was more likely that Sherlock was on the other side of the most potent part of the high and could be coming down enough to sleep in an hour or so. 

“Fine,” John said getting to his feet, “But the minute I see anything untoward I am taking you straight to the hospital and I don’t want to hear any arguments.

Sherlock gave a roll of his eyes but John took that to mean that he had at least heard him. 

“This doesn’t mean I am condoning this behaviour”

“You are not my keeper John,” Sherlock scolded. “You are not my anything,” he added quietly. 

“Maybe I’m just trying to be your friend,” John burst out suddenly without really meaning to, “You ever think about that?” 

“I…” Sherlock’s eyes tore themselves away from the ceiling and he appeared to be aware and in the room more than previously, “I don’t have friends.” 

John softened. Sherlock’s declaration had seemed so sad, but yet so rehearsed. As if it had been drilled into him over and over.

“You’ve got one.” 

The room was still for a few moments as John stared at Sherlock and his wide spaced-out eyes stared back. 

“Can you get dressed now?” John said snapping out of it before Sherlock could.

“Are you feeling exposed?” Sherlock asked, his voice husky yet mocking. 

John rolled his eyes and retrieved a blue silk dressing gown from the back of the bedroom door. He flung the flimsy material over the detective and finally felt comfortable moving his eyes over the room. 

It was tidier than the rest of the flat and much more muted than John would have guessed. There were still various artefacts laying around. A picture of Edgar Allen Poe, and a martial arts certificate to name a few, but it seemed more orderly and organised that the other rooms.

When John looked back at Sherlock the detective had dressed in the robe and was sat against the headboard. 

“Better?” He asked. 

“Much,” John replied.

“So is this what friends do, Show up an inconvenient times and force people into clothes?”

“If that’s the right thing to do.” John confirmed with a smirk, “But obviously that’s not why I came, I had no idea you were…”

“Thinking.” 

“Funny way to think.” 

“I told you John, My brain--”

“Yeah, yeah,” John held up his hands in a halting gesture, “Rocket ship, I remember.” 

Sherlock nodded. “So why did you come?” 

“I met someone. A friend of yours.” 

“I don’t have--” p> “An enemy then.” John clarified.

“Oh,” Sherlock shrugged, “Which one?”

John smiled despite himself. “Your.. arch-enemy apparently.”

“Oh.”

There was a pause in which John realised Sherlock was not going to elaborate.

“Who is he?”

“The most dangerous man you have ever met and not my problem right now.” 

“No.” John sighed, “Just mine I guess. He kidnapped me off the street you know, and I’m pretty sure he’s been following me. He knew things he shouldn’t have.” _And assumed a few others_ John thought. 

“Yes well he practically _is_ the British Government.”

John pursed his lips and ran through the benefits of continuing this conversation. Sherlock was going to keep being awkward and not giving anything away and John would probably just get more and more irritated. Whoever this strange evil government official was could take a flying leap if he thought his snide remarks were going to affect John at all. 

“Right, since you are refusing medical attention…” John rolled his eyes as Sherlock attempted to interrupt, “ _Qualified_ medical attention. You are going to rest and not complain.” 

Sherlock looked more that a little annoyed but he did not contradict John as he left to go to the kitchen. He did, however, despite his languid position, appear to vibrate with a restless kind of energy. 

“We should go out to eat” John decided as he looked into the empty cupboards and a bio-hazard-inducing fridge, “Just a little cafe or something. 

Sherlock had followed John into the kitchen and appeared behind the ridge door as John was shutting it. 

“Shit!” John said, a little startled, “Don’t do that. Could have floored you.”

“I do not wish to…” Sherlock began, his restlessness more apparently now he was standing. His weight teetered from foot to foot giving him the absurd appearance of swaying gently, “That is.. It is not my usual custom to… Go out. When I am…”

“Thinking.” John supplied, ever to slightly endeared to this shy and hesitant version of Sherlock.

The detective nodded and John backed off slightly from where they had come too close, faintly remembering the last time he’d been pressed in close proximity to the looming man. 

“we could order in,” Sherlock suggested.

“It’s morning.” John pointed out, “Nothing is open.” 

“Oh.” Sherlock seemed to consider this for a moment as though testing the validity before deducing finally that John was probably a more reliable witness to the time that him. 

“Did you even sleep last night?” John asked, watching as Sherlock’s confused expression suggested he probably hadn’t. “Right, I’m going to that sandwich shop downstairs for something to eat then--” 

Suddenly, panic stricken, Sherlock edged closer to John. “Are you-” he snapped his mouth shut as though betraying himself. “I thought the purpose was to make me eat.” 

“I am going to get food for _both_ of us.” John clarified, “And bring it back here.” 

Sherlock's shoulders visibly lowered and he nodded once. 

“Then when you’ve eaten you’re going to sleep this off.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes as John fished keys from Sherlock’s coat pocket on the back of the main door, and left the flat. 

At Speedy’s he grabbed coffee and sandwiches before making his way back to Sherlock and gathering him on the couch, spreading their meal on the coffee table. 

They ate in a weirdly companionable silence. John kept glancing sideways at Sherlock, checking up on how he was doing. 

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.” 

“You think incredibly loudly.” Sherlock sighed and put down the sandwich he had barely touched. “I am fine.” 

“You look tired, coming down?” 

Sherlock frowned, “I have been awake for… about 36 hours. Not that long by my usual standards but the approaching sobriety may have made me somewhat lethargc yes.”

“Go to sleep then.”

“I have a guest.”

“Then I’ll leave.”

“Don’t.” 

John blinked. It was the first time Sherlock had ever openly indicated he wanted to spend time with John without disguising it as an attempt to offer the medical student ‘excitement’ or wanting to show off his intellectual prowess. 

“Ok…”

“I mean, clearly you were on your way home from your current conquest’s house when you were intercepted. It’s still early in the morning so while you did stay over night I take it not much sleeping took place. You could… stay here… if you want.” 

Sherlock seemed less sure of himself that usual, John thought, the vulnerable shy version of him that had been present all day was, while endearing, a cause for slight concern. 

“Did something happen?” John asked, “Is that why you took the drugs? You know, if you just don’t want to be alone you can just ask me to stay.” 

There is yet another pause in which John thought maybe he went too far. They hadn’t known each other too long apart from all the ill advised and rejected come-ons, the mad dash about at a crime scene and the occasional textual exchange, they have not really spoken much.

“Is this part of that ‘friends’ thing?”

John can almost hear the air quotes. 

“Yes,” he said, “It’s what friends do.” 

“Do friends also try to have sex with each other?” 

John laughed, “Not normal people no.” 

“You do though.”

“To be honest, if a person is sexually available to me and in my acquaintance for any length of time I have probably tried it on at some point.” 

“And succeeded mostly.” 

“Mostly, yes.” 

“But not with me.” 

“No,” John smiled, “Not with you. But then, that was before I knew you were’ married to your work and therefore not sexually available.” 

Sherlock gave a curt nod. “So, do you want to?” 

John froze. Does he? Sure, Sherlock is attractive, hard not to see that really. And he has thought about it. Over all, yes, he probably would. But Sherlock is an addict. Probably not the best person for John to get involved with. But then, neither is John, And they’re friends now anyway. John couldn’t see himself walking away from the insane, brilliant man and getting sexually involved was a sure fire way to end the friendship. Sherlock does everything intensely. He wouldn’t be able to simply sleep with John and separate it from the friendship. 

“Um…” 

“Oh!” Sherlock said, standing suddenly, “Not that. I meant sleep. Here. I am quite tired as much as it pains me.” 

“Yes. Of course. No. Not that. Sleep, yes. I would...could, if you wanted.” 

If Sherlock noticed John’s babbling he did not let on. 

“There is a second room upstairs , or the couch, of course. “

“The couch is fine, I’ll be closer in case you need me”

“Why would I need you? I’m fine, perfectly fine.”

“No reason at all. Of course you are,. Still, its the friend’s think again I’m afraid.” 

“So far friends seem a bit overbearing” 

John smiled and waited while Sherlock fetched a pillow and blanket from his room. It wasn’t until Sherlock had left him alone and he was curled up under it he realised Sherlock must have pulled it off his own bed. It smelled faintly of Sherlock and, as John fell blissfully asleep- more tired than he had thought- he felt oddly comforted by it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this has been abandoned for so long. I was completing my masters degree and couldn't afford distractions. Then S3 happened and my brain exploded. 
> 
> My other work will probably be abandoned entirely now as its post-reichenbach nonsense but this is an AU so I can do what I want. Besides, Man-whore John is my favourite and I'm not about to let him go.


	10. Chapter Ten.

John had always liked sleep. Being a medical student as well as having a penchant for the early-morning from a one-night-stand meant he didn’t often get as much sleep as he would like. Which is why, when Sherlock unceremoniously woke him after only three hours of slumber, John let out a low, croaky groan.

“d’you want?” he asked. Then, before registering where he was, he turned over in his half-sleep. Only to remember, all too late, that he was sleeping on the couch. Tumbling to the floor and landing amidst the blankets, he was suddenly very awake indeed.

“Good.” Sherlock said, striding over him, “You’re awake. We have an appointment.”

“Give a bloke a chance to wake up properly,” John said, rubbing his eyes.

Sherlock seemed frustrated at John’s need to do anything beside follow him blindly upon command. The taller man was dressed, that expensive looking suit back on like armour. Gone is the shy, hesitant young man that had asked John to stay.

“You’re feeling better then.” John said, standing finally and taking his proffered coat.

“Of course John, don’t be an idiot.” With that, Sherlock swept from the room.

They were out on the street and jumping in to a taxi before John caught up with him enough to ask where they were going.

“FIlm studios,” Sherlock answered, “Where they were making Denney’s latest film.”

“What for?”

“Investigating John, it’s what detectives do.”

“Right. But Denney shot himself, why are you investigating?”

“ _we_ are investigating because the police have decided that all the facts uit that theory and have stopped looking. Rather than, as would be more beneficial, gathering all the facts and then formulating a theory.”

John was quiet all the way to the studio. Anything he said was being shot down and he was pretty sure it was because Sherlock was embarrassed that he’d asked John to stay. That he was so vulnerable.

As they got out of the car John noticed Sherlock’s hand was shaking slightly. He grabbed him by the wrist, turning him to face him.

“Are you alright?” he asked, “if you are coming down we could do this another time.”

“Don’t be an idiot.” Sherlock pulled his hand from John’s grip roughly.

“Is it always like this? John asked, “Exactly how much have you been taking if you’ve got the shakes mere hours after getting high?”

“That is none of your business!”

“It bloody well is. You want to drag me around after you, and don’t even pretend you don’t _want_ me here because I know you do. You may not have had a friend before but that doesn’t mean you can treat the only one you’ve got like this.”

There was so much silence that Jon almost walks away, he’s half turned away when Sherlock speaks, quietly.

“I’ve had friends before,” he says, “Just because I don’t have any more doesn't mean I never have.”

“Well if you treat them all the way you treat me I’m not surprised they aren’t around any more.”

John froze. He’d been so angry he’d reacted too quickly, before he’d turned back around enough to catch sight of Sherlock’s face. He looked as though John had struck him, his face stunned but hiding behind a mask of indifference.

“I’m sorry,” John said with a sigh, “I’m tired. I just meant that I’m concerned about you and you keep brushing that off. You are allowed to let people help you.”

There was another beat of silence where the expression on Sherlock face shifted to one of disbelief, like he wasn’t certain John was telling the truth.

“We have an appointment,” is his only reply.

John supposed that having a deep and meaningful conversation about SHerlock’s drug use on not a lot of sleep was probably not a good idea but he couldn’t seem to stop berating him for it.

They entered the film studio and were met by the producer. She was mid-forties, highlighted hair cut into a straight bob that skimmed her shoulders. She seemed busy, and a little frustrated at having to meet with them at all.

“Suzanne,” Sherlock said. Suddenly he was friendlier than John had ever seen him, smiling toothily and taking her by the shoulders to kiss her cheek. The woman was momentarily taken back, but was soon smiling and preening under a younger man’s affections. “Thank you for meeting with us, the uni magazine has been needing a cover story and what with Arthur Denney’s tragic passing, we thought it ample opportunity to pay homage to such a great actor. and, promote your film a bit of course.” Sherlock winked Actually winked.

John’s mouth must have been hanging open at this point because they both turned to look at him.

“Sorry, and you are?” The woman asked.

“This is John Watson,” Sherlock said clapping him on the back, “He’s here from the union, making sure I don’t get them in too much trouble.”

“Do you often?” Suznne asked as they moved through the corridors.

“Oh all the time,” that smile was back on Sherlock’s face, “But then, it wouldn’t be any fun if you didn’t do things you weren’t supposed to from time to time. Would it?”

“Definitely not.” Suzanna said with a devilish little wiggle in Sherlock’s direction.

It was sickening. Of course John had seen Sherlock turn the seduction but on before. He’d been on the receiving end of it not that long ago. But this was different. When he’d approached John he’d still been himself, domineering, predatory, forceful. The Sherlock fawning all over a movie producer was not the Sherlock John had come to know. This Sherlock is a young rogue, a rebellious rascal Suzanne could tame if she tried, and clearly she wants to. His acting capabilities were astounding, leaving John to wonder how much acting he did in John’s presence without him catching on.

He knew it was a act, but that didn’t mean it didn’t make John feel strange to see it.

“Sometimes things are wrong for a reason,” John says, “Because they are bad for you, however good they feel.”

“Denying baser urges it damaging,” Sherlock said, “as I’m sure you’re aware.

John had meant to allude to Sherlock’s druge habit, and he was sure the detective had picked up on that, but as he had previously, he’d flipped the conversation to refer to John’s sexual adventures. Maybe its all just one big addiction in the end.

“Depends on whether it hurts anyone else in the process,” John replied icily.

He watched as Sherlock raised a solitary eyebrow. “Indeed.”

Suzanna had been watching this exchange with a sort of confused amusement.

“Well,” she said suddenly, clapping her hands together, “Shall we get on with the interview? I’m sure you’ve got plenty to be getting on with, I know I have.”

Sherlock had been staring at John with a look of haughty defiance, clearly comparing one addiction to the other and eeming John’s more harmful. But then, he sprang back incharacter, beaming widely as Suzanne and turning towards her.

“Of course,” he said, “Thank you.”

They’d come to a stop in the editing suite. Rows of monitors and computer equipment lined the walls, it was small and claustrophobic.

“We just wanted to get a feel for what Mr. Denney was like before him death. What he was like to work with, that sort of thing.”

Sherlock was good. Asking without really asking, playing it off like an ordinary question. John would have been impressed if he wasn’t still so angry.

“He was a delight,” she said with a smile almost as fake as Sherlock’s.

“That’s great,” Sherlock replied, making a note on a book pulled from his many pockets, “for the magazine. But surely there’s more to the story… just between us I mean. I mean, aren’t they saying he killed himself?”

She looked dubious for a moment but Sherlock’s unthreatening demeanour seemed to put her at ease, with a small glance in john’s direction she leant ever closer to Sherlock and lowered her voice.

“Well, strictly off the record, he was lovely, of course. But a bit of a dinosaur. Classical in his humour but a little more slapstick that we would have liked.”

“But he was in good spirits.”

“Yes. Well…” She sighed as though giving up the ghost, “He was extremely arthritic, we had to get a hand double in for most of it, could barely pick anything up. Sad really, he was one of the greats.”

“Yes.” Sherlock said, suddenly looking distracted, 2I’m sure.”

“If you ask me, I reckon that whole business with Jean caught up to him. Couldn’t face what he’d done.”

“You think he killed his first wife?” John cut in.

The spell was broken instantly. Suzanne snapped up and became the brisk businesslike woman she had been when they’d first met. “Gavin Thomas won his appeal and he was always implicated. But the studio has no suspicions one way or another. Arthur Denney was a great actor and he will be missed. The film will be release in his memory early next year.”

“That will be all.” Sherlock swept from the room. His swirling coat that has once seemed so dramatic turning melodramatic in John’s eyes.

“Sorry about him,” John said hurriedly following Sherlock out of the door, “Deadlines, you know. Thank you for your time.”

John was out of the door just fast enough to see Sherlock still stalking away along the corridor.

“What the bloody hell was that?” John yelled after him.

He never knew whether it was the tone in his voice or the exact wording but something made Sherlock stop and turn to face him.

“Investigating, do keep up.”

“No, Sherlock _that_ wasn’t investigating. Investigative interviews take place by police officers and sometimes they even tell the person that is who they are. What you did was lie and manipulate that woman into telling you things.”

“It’s quicker.”

John had strode level with Sherlock now.

“Do you always do that then?” He asked, his voice a bit quieter now, realising where they were and how much they could probably be overheard. “The acting bit. Is anything you say true?”

“Some things. Depends on what I want at the time.”

Sherlock walked off again, but he seemed to hang back this time, giving John a chance ot walk alongside him.

“What about with me?”

“What do I want with you?”

“No,” John said, voice a little high, “Do you do the acting thing?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed but he didn’t look at John, simply stared ahead.

“No.” He stretched the word, lengthening it out with a pout, like he was surprised to discovered that he hadn’t acted with John at all.

“Good. That’s good.”

They caught a cab when they were back on the street. Somehow Sherlock had an uncanny ability to flag one down no matter where abouts in London he was. Sherlock gave his own address to the drive and settled in the seat, fingers drawn up to his face in what John was quickly coming to realise was his thinking pose.

“What about the other thing.” John said quietly after a time, half hoping Sherlock hadn’t really heard him.

“Other thing?”

“What do you want with me?”

“You tell me,” Sherlock said, “You’re the one who is so convinced I _want_ you around.”

John pursed his lips. It was like pulling teeth, getting Sherlock to admit they were actually friends.

“You do.” John said with a half smile, “I just don’t know how much.”

“Friends thing.”

“Right.”

That was it then. He’d asked, outright, and they were friends. That was good. Still, John had the nagging sense that he wasn’t all that happy with that outcome for some reason. He’d been over it and over it, more than he’d really let on, and wanting more from Sherlock was a bad idea on so many levels. _It would be such a bad idea._ He was an addict, he was married to his work, he was demanding and ridiculous and, John was sure, more than a little insane. John was unable to commit, did not have the time or the inclination for a relationship and had a perfectly reasonable and uncomplicated sex life as it was. Still, he’d slept with people more inapproriate that Sherlock Holmes in his day. There was that TA from university for a start…

“I didn’t lie about everything I said to her.” Sherlock said suddenly.

They were pulling up at Baker street, John didn’t noticed how quickly they’d gotten there, he’d been so deep in thought.

“What?”

“I didn’t lie, about everything.”

Sherlock hopped out of the taxi and waited while John, rolling his eyes, paid the driver and followed him out.

“Okay,” John said, “I’ll bite, what didn’t you lie about?”

They were inside, in the hall, and suddenly Sherlock was crowding him up against the wall. IT was so like last time that John almost threw him off, expecting an attack. _Such a bad idea…_

“Sometimes it is fun to do things you aren’t supposed to.”

John couldn’t reply. Sherlock’s face was mere inches from his, the wool of that stupid coat draping around both of them, swinging from Sherlock’s shoulders where his hands had come up to frame John’s head on the wall.

“We are friends” Sherlock said, as though wanting to confirm a hypothesis.

John nodded. _This is such a bad idea…_

“You sleep with, or try to, the friends of yours that are sexually available to you.”

Another nod. _I’ve had worse ideas though..._

“John,” his voice was deep, so deep it vibrated right through John’s chest settling low in his abdomen like a puddle of warmth. “I’m available.”

_Fuck it_. John closed the distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea how movie studios are run, and Suzanne probably wouldn't have volunteered that information, I imagine studio execs are too careful to be swayed by one good looking teenager. But then, it is Sherlock. Anyway, I apologise for nothing, just wanted to stop the "that wouldn't happen" comments before they started. 
> 
> Also, I set up a Tumblr for my fanfic account at Madopheliaa.tumblr.com where you can follow me to get updates on my fics, how I'm going with the next chapter and generally get a look inside my crazy Johnlock-filled head. Also, I'm Madopheliaa on Twitter too if you are a tweeter. 
> 
> Yes, there are extra A's on the end of my username on those two sites because the singular spelling was taken. Also, it adds a little extra "ahhh" to the end, which I like.


	11. Chapter Eleven

This was not a good idea. John knew it wasn’t a good idea. Somewhere deep down in his head was a voice screaming about how much of a bad idea it really was, but it was effortlessly drowned out by the rushing of blood in his head and the smooth slick sound of Sherlock’s tongue sweeping across his own. The tang of long fingers rasped across his stubble and John huffed out a surprised breath as the seeming tenderness of it. But too quickly, fingers slid from this position and grasped lustfully at his hips. 

It was moving too fast, the soft tinkle of his belt buckle echoing in the empty hall as Sherlock’s deft fingers slid the leather free and parted the button on his jeans. 

“S…” 

The beginnings of the word slipped from John’s mouth, The hiss too soft and silky to have an impact, so that he lost his grip on the rest of the letters. he let it tumble away, unsure of what it would have been. Slow down? Stop? A groaned out version of the younger man’s name? Possibly all three. 

Whatever it was, it was gone by the time the zip on his jeans gave way too. The start of a word slipped between the sounds of metal sliding free of metal in rapid fire vibration. 

Cool fingers wriggled their way beneath his waistband and the sudden contact with aching flesh pushed the moan waiting in John’s throat free into the world. 

The fact that John hadn’t meant to release it brought his brain back into focus momentarily and he slid a hand around Sherlock’s wrist. The taller man pulled away from John’s mouth and grey-blue eyes flicked to his in question. 

“This is me stopping you from getting in to trouble.” John said, with reference to his pretend role at the movie studio. 

“It wouldn’t be any fun if you didn’t get in trouble from time to time” Sherlock echoed, picking up the thread of his earlier words. 

“I thought this was my addiction.” John said, letting his hand slide from Sherlock’s wrist. The brunette didn’t move. “not yours.” 

“I’m an enabler.” Sherlock shrugged, jostling the hand still wrapped around John’s length. 

John felt himself twitch and became aware that despite the halt in proceedings, his erection had not lost interest. 

“I keep telling you addictions are bad Sherlock, indulging mine will not make me excuse yours.” 

“Denying baser urges is bad for you.” Sherlock replied in a perfect parody of their previous conversation, considering where his hand was.

_Depends who’s getting hurt_ his brain supplied as his next line. Wasn’t that what he had said next?

This time it died on his lips and drifted off to settle amongst the stopslowdownsherlock he had never managed to articulate. 

Sherlock’s hand moved slowly, so slowly it could have passed as accidental if it wasn’t for the analytical gaze of Sherlock appraising his reaction. 

John did not stop him. Instead once again he closed the gap between their mouths and let the soft sounds of wet tongue-on-tongue fill the tiny space. 

His own hands, sensing a decision had been made-- for better or for worse-- reached to undo the fastening on Sherlock’s jeans too. 

The way Sherlock moved was with purpose. Technical accuracy that had John breathing heavily in moments. It was effective, expedient and almost textbook. What John had was experience. Too much experience if you listened to the critics. So when it became obvious that Sherlock’s ministrations were going to bring this encounter to a close far too quickly, John settled the hand not currently burrowing into Sherlock’s grey jersey boxers once again onto Sherlock’s wrist. 

The younger man sighed into John’s mouth and let go of John. 

“Look, if you’re worried about--”

The protestations ceased abruptly as John’s fingers made contact finally with his cock. Pleased to find Sherlock as hard as he was, and at the look of confusion on Sherlock’s face, John smiled. 

“It’s not a race.” John said, pulling Sherlock free of his underwear and shimmying his own jeans and boxers down to mid-thigh. “The wonderful thing about my drug of choice is that the high can last as long as you want.”

“The male orgasm lasts between 5 and 22 seconds on average.” 

John smiled. as he wrapped a hand around them both and gave a torturously slow stroke upwards. As his wrist twisted slightly over the heads, creating slick friction with their pre-come, they both made the same half-moan. 

“You think the orgasm is the high?” he drew his hand down again before completing the move again with the same result. “This bit is the high,” he whispered. 

Sherlock dropped his head to John’s shoulder so the medical student’s voice was speaking directly into his ear. 

“We both know we’re going to come. I’ll make sure of it.” he breathed, “But this, the build-up, the sparking nerve endings stimulated but the increased friction and all that wet heat, this is the high. There is no needle, just me.” 

John didn’t know where all of that was coming from, but it seemed to be working. Sherlock was tense against him, hips undulating slightly with each thrust of John’s hand. 

There was no reply. Just the harsh sound of deep breathing and wet skin. Sherlock had seemingly lost the ability to reply. Finally something prevented the giant pain-in-the-arse from having the last word. Useful to remember, John thought. 

His hand faltered in its easy rhythm slightly at that. What cause would John have to remember that? Surely this was a one-time deal. John was used to those, he knew how they worked. They’d finish here, perhaps shower, maybe even retire for a nap and have a leisurely repeat when they woke. Fuck it, they may even have dinner, fuck on the kitchen table and John may even stay over. 

All of these things were negotiable. He had easily talked his way into them before, with many people. The one thing however, that was unavoidable, a completely concrete clause in the casual sex contract, was that once it was done, that was it. 

They may see each other from time-to-time. They may even be friends. But that tension would be gone, the heady rush he seemed to experience in Sherlock’s presence wouldn’t be there any more. 

Perhaps Sherlock would realise his drug of choice was better than John’s and offer no contact at all. After all, they hadn’t known each other too long so why did John suddenly assume they would end any other way that with complete dismissal?

Sherlock was no like Sarah or Molly. He wouldn’t curb his curiosity about sex with John Watson and then continue their association. He was just another puzzle. How long would it take before John gave in? What frustrating behaviour would John put up with and still fuck him afterwards? 

Whatever question or experiment Sherlock was trying to find the outcome for, this was the conclusion.

So far, throughout his entire mental analysis of the situation, John had managed to keep up his steady stroke, bringing Sherlock to a thrusting slightly sweaty mess pressed against his front. Now, John’s brain ceased its fixation on possible outcomes as Sherlock’s hand came up to join his on their cocks. His long fingers covered the parts of their shafts John could not reach, and the increased tight heat sent them both shivering.

Sherlock lifted his head to lock eyes with John. A small smirk playing about his lips as they both felt the synchronicity in their hands on the upstroke twist. 

Sherlock was the first to break. His eyes screwed tight and his mouth parted slightly, a soft sound of surprise escaping him as he pulsed in their joined hands.

He didn’t let go as he finished though, and the added lubrication of Sherlock’s spend on John’s cock meant that he wasn’t far behind. 

“Oh fuck…” and John was coming too. His vision whiting out as Sherlock squeezed slightly in the way John liked as he climaxed.

How he had known to do this probably had something to do with the way John’s own hand tightened reflexively as it hit him, John thought later. But at that moment he didn’t think much of anything. Just a string of curses and praises which he may or may not have also said out loud. 

They didn’t move for a moment. Sherlock’s eyes were open again but gaxing off to the side, towards the stairs. 

“Well,” John said finally, “That was…”

“Your reputation was well earned it seems.” Sherlock said. 

John sighed, unsure what that made him feel a little sad. “Yeah, doesn’t take a lot to get me in to bed… err… hallway.” 

Sherlock’s head whipped around to look at John, his eyes flicking rapidly in the way John was coming to learn was his deducing gaze.

“I meant it was… good.” Sherlock said waving a hand dismissively before busying himself with sorting out his trousers. He wiped his slick hand across his thigh. “Showers.” he concluded, looking at the mess. 

“Yes.” John replied, pulling awkwardly on his own jeans with one hand, trying to avoid th hand currently covered in their joint emissions. 

“I can…” Sherlock said “I mean, washing. Out clothes.” he seemed to frown at his own inarticulation before starting again, “I will wash our clothes, you can shower and I suppose you will insist upon eating something. Then we can…” he raised an eyebrow.

“Thanks. We can do that.” 

Then, because they were getting washed anyway, he wiped his own hand on his jeans and pulled them up properly.

“Come on then.” 

Sherlock seemed a little awkward after they had showered, separately, and the washing was spinning away. At first John thought it might be because he was regretting his decision to ask John to stay for a repeat round. However, once John did indeed insist upon takeaway and had switched their clothes to the dryer, Sherlock reached over and pulled John to him again. 

Later, when the dryer beeped that John’s clothes were dry and he could get dressed and leave if he wanted to, he and Sherlock were busy ensuring the sheets on Sherlock’s bed would need to go in the laundry straight after them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this has taken so long!! 
> 
> If you ever want to kick me up the butt about a chapter or simply follow how I am coming along with this fic and others I am writing (including a Bodyguard fusion AU and a non-sequel post-uni exes fic) you can [follow me on Tumblr here.](http://madopheliaa.tumblr.com)
> 
> I enjoy getting to know all of you on there so feel free to leave me asks and comment and things. I really appreciate them all!


	12. Chapter Twelve

They’d fallen asleep after showering again sometime around midnight. There was no cuddling, no soft words in the darkness, but then John hadn’t expected any. In fact, the only communication they had shared in the suspended place of Sherlock’s bedroom was when Sherlock received a text around seven in the morning. 

“Lestrade summons,” he said, already mostly dressed as John slid into consciousness. “Gavin Thomas’ boat was found off the Welsh coast, no sign of a body.” 

“Gavin Thomas is dead?” John slurred sleepily into the pillow. 

“It would appear so.” Sherlock said, “Either way we need to go.” 

He indicated where John’s clothes were folded neatly on the foot of the bed, the lingering heat of the dryer long gone. 

“Yea. Course. I’ll let you get on.” John said pulling himself to standing and pulling on his clothes.

“Come with.” Sherlock said, shrugging into a suit jacket. He was wearing jeans again today, the suit clearly for Suzanne’s benefit. Shame. It had looked really good. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yes. You may as well see the case through to its conclusion.” 

John sat on the mussed bed again to pull on his shoes, glanced at the sheets before mentally declaring them a hopeless cause and set his shoulders. 

“Ok. Lead on.”

And still they didn’t talk about it.They bypassed seeing Lestrade and took a cab to Mrs Thomas’ house again, but they didn’t mention a word. No discussion of whether last night was a good thing or a mistake. No questioning whether it would happen again or if it was an isolated incident.

In Mrs Thomas’ kitchen, once again sat at the table having accepted tea, John looked into the grief stricken face serving it to him and knew that in that moment, none of it really mattered. 

“He had only just got his freedom” she said leaning back against the counter. She was clutching the steaming mug in her hands to her but not drinking from it, as though willing the heat of it to seep in to her fingers. “Now this is all I have left of him.” 

She nudged the box by her feet with one pointed slipper. It was so empty that it slid further than she had anticipated and came to rest beside Sherlock’s chair. 

“May I?” Sherlock asked. 

John’s eyebrows shot up at the uncharacteristic politeness. 

“I don’t know what you expect to find,” she replied, but nodded. “It’s just clothes and toiletries. And the journal he kept since his release.” 

Sherlock had pulled the journal from the box, leaving clothes hanging across the edge of it. He had flipped it open to where a pen was nestled in the last written page. John leaned over to peer over at it, unable to read much. 

“Dull.” Sherlock declared, flipping the pages to see each day of his holiday and the boring activities he’d participated in. 

“Sherlock,” John admonished. 

“Right. Yes… Thank you.” He stood from the table scraping the chair backwards. “Must be off. Places to go. Can I take this? Thanks.” 

John was once again left stammering how sorry he was for Sherlock’s disappearance and following behind him as he swept from the room 

“Must I constantly apologise for you?” John said as he joined a texting Sherlock on the pavement.

“No one asked you to.” Sherlock replied frostily, “No one has bothered before.”

“Well maybe you need to recruit someone,” John said with a grin, “You’ll get yourself punched or something one day.”

“Well thank god you are around to stop me getting into trouble.” 

John couldn’t tell if that was sarcastic or not. Knowing Sherlock, it almost definitely was. Was the detective aware of the connection to what they’d said last night? Did he consider what happened as some trouble John had failed to stop him getting in to? John had tried to stop him, hadn’t he? Placed a hand on his wrist and made him pause anyway, but Sherlock had pressed on.

“Get in the taxi John.”

John snapped out of his mental turmoil to find Sherlock sitting in the back seat of a taxi with the door open.

“Sorry.” John said, “Where are we going?” 

Sherlock grinned, “Lestrade is going to meet us back at Arthur Denney’s bunker.”

“Why?”

“I need a practical demonstration to prove my solution as to how Arthur Denney was murdered.”

“Murdered?” John said, “By who?” 

“Gavin Thomas.”

“But you have a journal right there that proves he was in Wales at the time of Denney’s death.”

“Evidence is only as strong as the records you keep.”

The finality of the sentence was evident even to John, who didn’t have Sherlock’s skill in deduction, as was the turn away to gaze out of the window. And they were back to not talking. 

The ride out to Denney’s bunker took longer than John remembered. Still, he was hopped up on anticipation last time they’d taken the journey so he didn’t have the place of mind to fully appreciate how far outside of London central it really was. This time, he only have his one meandering ponderings to keep him company, and none of that was new.

 

The bunker was much the same as before. The police tape had be cleared away and there were not as many people gathered about but the older DI was in fervent discussion with Mrs Denney as they came close. 

“You’d better have an explanation for this Sherlock.” Lestrade said as the young detective came to a stop at his side, “I updated you on the case but it wasn’t an open invitation to get involved. What is with ordering us to meet here?”

“I’ve solved it.” Sherlock said simply, “I need to confirm something inside but I’m pretty sure I’ve got it all wrapped up.”

Sweeping past he wrenches open the heavy door of the bunker. Steep steps fall quickly away and Sherlock descends them with all the grace and elegance John has become sufficiently used to. He follows closely behind, not wanting to miss out on what is shaping up to be a rather entertaining confrontation. Lestrade and Mrs Denney follow behind and John struggles to keep his eyes from staring at Sherlock once they reach the bottom. 

He can’t falter now. He’d been doing such a good job of keeping his eye- and hands- to himself. They aren’t talking about it. Aren’t allowed to.

Sherlock doesn’t seem to notice him staring. He is pacing the floor where the body had been, waiting for the rest of the party to join him. It has been cleaned, a faint stain of blood on the concrete floor. 

“This place was nearly finished yes?” He says quickly. 

Mrs Denney has barely any time to catch her breathe after the long descent and hastily nods her head.

“The only things left to go in were the supplies and the toilet.” He indicates over to the drainage pipe nestles in against the rear wall. 

“Sherlock.” Lestrade warns, “If you don’t start making some sense soon I swear to god…”

“Arthur Denney was murdered.” Sherlock says drawing up to face Lestrade with a look of pure determination in his eyes. 

“Yeah? By Who?”

“Gavin Thomas.” 

“Gavin Thomas has been away on holiday.” Lestrade insists, “His widow is distraught right now because his boat wash up on shore and he’s god knows where. He died Sherlock, there is no way he could have done it.” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes and shoots a look at the room as if to suggest that they are all painfully slow. He reaches over to a pile of building materials and passes John a sledge hammer. John tries not to marvel when his very thin, very drug addicted friend passes him the heavy object like it is nothing. 

“What do you want me to do with that?” John asks, taking it but letting it rest on the floor to his side like an absurd walking stick. 

“I want you to break down that wall.” 

He indicates to the back wall. John looks to Lestrade. 

“Why?”

Sherlock is in movement again, drawing up a stone from the floor and striding over to the drainage pipe in the floor. 

“This pipe is roughly three inches from the wall yes?” He crouches down low and sets the stone to the floor, drawing as he speaks. “Where is the toilet going to go? If the basin goes here, over the pipe where does the cistern sit? There isn’t enough room to squeeze them both in.” he rubs out the outline hs has drawn that is, quite rightly, too big to fit into the small space. “perhaps it fits this way” he changes direction and draws with the stone once again. “But see, still too small a gap to fit.” 

“So the builders cocked up.” Lestrade says, “I don’t see what that proves.”

“It proves this wall has been moved.” Sherlock says standing and dusting off his hands. “John, if you would.” 

John moved forward, lifting the hammer from the floor. 

“Wait.” Lestrade says, bringing John to a stop with a steady hand on his arm. “Explain it to me like I’m…. Like I’m the most stupid person you have ever met. Walk me through it.” 

Sherlock gives the DI a look that suggests he might actually be the most stupid man he had ever met and launches into his explanation.

“Gavin Thomas was founding standing over the body of Mrs Jean Denney, holding the murder weapon and without attempting to flee. A little too easy don’t you think? Even the stupid criminals run. Its like he wanted to get caught.” 

Lestrade nods, folds his arms over his chest and waits for Sherlock to continue. John drops the hammer again, eyeing Sherlock with rapt attention. 

“That brings us to the letters. Of course Gavin Thomas wouldn’t be ordering fudge, his wife told us he didn’t like fudge, so why is he getting letters confirming his order time and time again? Unless, the letters are just a way to sneak in other messages.”

“So what, a code?” Mrs Denney says suddenly, he face picture of someone watching a crime drama on the telly and wanting to get involved in the final reveal. Which is what this is really, John thinks and he watches Sherlock shoot her another derisive smirk.

“Not a code,” He confirms, pulling the letters from his pocket and thrusting them at Lestrade. “The notes were written under the stamps. A pre-determined system no doubt so that the real killer could contact Thomas.” 

“The killer?” John can’t help himself from interjecting. 

Sherlock doesn’t look at him like he’s stupid. He grins in a way that assumes John hasn’t got the joke yet, but that that is okay.

“Yes John, the killer. ‘Please keep your silence and I will stand by my pledge to you’ wasn’t an illicit affair. Its the killer promising that if Thomas keeps his mouth shut and serves his time then Denney will stand by his promise to reward him.” 

“Denney?” John gasps.

“Yes.” Sherlock has locked his eyes with John and he doesn’t look away even as Lestrade is practically vibrating with unanswered questions.

“It was Denney. He killed his first wife, or hired Thomas to do it, that part is inconsequential. Either way, Gavin Thomas served time for it and Denney promised to reward him. I am assuming that reward never came.”

“What makes you so sure?” Lestrade says through gritted teeth.

“Why else would Thomas kill him? If the deal had gone on as planned there would be no need. An attack of conscience is viable I suppose but I highly doubt that in a man that agreed to the deal in the first place. No, Arthur Denney promised money to a man for killing his wife and then never delivered on pay day.”

“Right.” Lestrade says, “and how exactly did Gavin Thomas come back from a holiday where he was found dead, perpetrate a murder in a locked room and then leave?” 

“He didn’t” 

“But you just said…” 

“He wasn’t ‘found dead’ was he? Yes never recovered a body. And I am not suggesting he committed murder in a locked room and walked away.”

“So, what?” Lestrade asks, squaring his footing a little wider as though preparing for a fight. “Gavin Thomas fakes his death. I can understand that. Write a few diary entry pages in advance, arrange for a boat to wash up on shore and you’re away. But the murder was committed here. In a sealed room, a bunker no less, with no way out.” 

“There wasn’t.” Sherlock says. He turns to Lestrade now, breaking eye contact with John. “He came here with the intention of killing Arthur Denney and that's exactly what he did. He shot Denney in the head. Arranged his body as a suicide, probably to spare his wife the knowledge of what he’d done and then he killed himself.”

There is a beat of silence when John looks at the hammer in his hand. He’s almost sure that everyone in the room has worked it out.

“The tablet John.”

“Paracetamol.” John confirms, “Sherlock found one on the floor.” 

“He wouldn’t need many. A packet, two, three. Easily acquired, people do it every day.” He steps over so they are all in a macabre line staring at the far wall. “John, if you please.” 

John steps forward and Lestrade doesn’t stop him this time. It takes less time that he thought it would be create a hole big enough to see through and it only requires him to stop once to take off his jacket. In the blackness behind the wall, in the cavity created, is Gavin Thomas’ body. Upright and stiff, the rigor mortis has set in leaving a bizarre and morbid depiction of a man sleeping on his feet, his skin a pale grey. 

“With his final few hours he bricked himself in. That's why the wall was further out, why there was no room for the toilet to be installed. He didn't kill Denney and walk away. He killed him and then stayed.” 

John is breathing heavily, Lestrade has a look of utter disbelief on his face and Mrs Denney looks like someone has run over her with a train. Sherlock, unaffected as ever look self satisfied in a way John had over every seen a split second after he’d given in to Sherlock’s advances the previous evening, 

“Well, you have your killer inspector, I have to be going now. Things to do.” 

“Oh no.” John says suddenly, “Not this time You don’t to work something out and then leave me standing in a room apologising for you.” 

Sherlock look suddenly angry. “Follow me. Sorry Lestrade, John and I need to talk.” He steps sideways and uses a hand to indicate John should walk ahead of him. 

They are silent all the way up the stairs, bursting out into sunlight suddenly, shading their eyes against the sudden brightness. 

“That better?” Sherlock asks, “No apologising and you got to walk in front.”

“Not the point Sherlock and you know it.” 

“No one has asked you to be my keeper John,” Sherlock warns eyes narrowing slightly. 

“And god knows I don’t want the job!” 

“Of course not, you’ve slept with me now, I imagine you won’t want to continue the association.” 

John opens his mouth to reply but he isn’t sure what will come out of it. Obviously he wants to be Sherlock’s friend but he isn’t sure about the rest of it.

“We’re friends.” John stammers ineffectually. It doesn’t really explain his stance on the issue, nor does it attest to the jumble of thoughts running through his head or to how he’s been thinking of last night over and over throughout the day, even when he shouldn’t. He can’t explain to Sherlock how it hasn’t been that way with a one night stand before, but how John isn’t really sure that means. Instead, that's all he says, which is probably why Sherlock’s reply is just as finite.

“I don’t have friends.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on [Tumblr here.](http://madopheliaa.tumblr.com)
> 
> I love getting to know all of you over there and you get updates on this and [other fics I am working on](http://madopheliaa.tumblr.com/inprogress)


	13. Chapter Thirteen

The bass of whatever tune was playing through the speakers thudded through John’s chest and right down to his toes. _Who puts a speaker on the end of a bar?_ John thought, _surely that just makes it harder to order a bloody pint_. 

Finally, he managed to get served and make his way over to where his friends were sitting, gathered around a small table. He slid in next to Mike and Molly, watching as Bill tried his luck with the table of girls next to them. He didn’t seem to be doing well. 

“Bloody loud over there.” John grumbled, a little too despondently.

“Are you okay John?” Molly asked raising her wine for a sip, “You haven’t been yourself the past few weeks.”

True, John had perhaps been a little prickly. But it was only because he’d been so busy at uni and had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he’d heard absolutely nothing from Sherlock since the closure of the case three weeks ago. 

“Lots of work on.” John explained, “few more beers and I’ll be all set.” 

“Few more beers and a pretty lady.” Bill clarified, dipping into their conversation for a moment. “He’ll be right as rain.”

John gave him a perfunctory smile and sipped his drink. 

“John,” Molly said, placing a small, cool palm on his wrist, “does this have anything to do with Sherlock Holmes?”

“What? Why Would it?”

“Everyone knows you were hanging out with him a few weeks ago, and it suddenly stopped. Seemed like you were going to be friends, and you’ve been so off since. He did mention it.”

“He mentioned it?” John said, resisting the urge to ask exactly what Sherlock has said. 

“Sure. He’s always trying to sneak in to pathology. And we used to live together, you know. I’d say we were friends but…” 

“he doesn’t have any.” John finished, “I’m aware.”

“Did he do something?” 

John didn’t reply. Had Sherlock done something? There had been tension all day before the bunker. Neither of them had talked about what happened and it had finally bubbled over. John hadn’t meant the stuff he’d said and he really hang genuinely wanted to be Sherlock’s friend. Except, Sherlock hadn’t contacted him, had told him that they weren’t friends, he’d asked him to stay with him when he was high, thrown himself at him, slept with him and then hadn’t contacted him.

“Oh John.” Molly said when he didn’t reply. 

“Mate, you didn’t.” Mike chorused. 

Why did people keep assuming that whenever there was a problem it was because John had slept with someone? Granted, in this situation it was quite close to the truth but john was still sick of everyone jumping to that conclusion.

“Sod off.” He said before he knew what he was doing. 

“Don’t be like that.” Molly said

“Sorry,” he said, frowning, “it’s just…”

“What happened with Sarah?” Mike asked, “DIdn’t you…” 

“Do her more than once” Bill supplied not firmly planted in the conversation having given up the game at the next table. “You dog, you.” He clapped John on the shoulder. 

“Sarah’s a good person.” John clarified, “We had fun.” 

“You sure?” Molly asked, “She’s not expecting more?” 

John thought back to all their encounters. “No,” he said firmly, “We agreed it was just a bit of fun.” 

“You and Sherlock agree that too?” Mike asked

“Sherlock?” Bill said.

John sighed. “Alright. Yes, I slept with Sherlock Holmes. Big deal. I sleep with everyone apparently so why should he be any different, right?” When he’d started, John couldn’t stop. Words were falling from him that he hadn’t intended to say, but they were more truthful than he had allowed himself to be in a long time. “Except he is. I can’t stop thinking about him and his arrogant, arrogant face. He’s a drug addict and not interested and I don’t want a relationship. I don’t want boring nights in and to meet the parents or any of that nonsense. But god, I was to fuck him again.”

There was quiet at the table when John finished. It did not last long. 

“You are Three Campuses Watson.” Bill reassured, “You can have whoever you want.” 

“Not him. It’s complicated.” 

Molly had a smile on her face that said she knew something John didn’t. “Tell him how you feel.” 

John let out a tut and rolled his eyes. “I don’t _feel_ anything.” he said, “It’s not all soppy and romantic. The sex was good. I’m a dog. It’s been established.”

“Hell yeah!” Bill said and swayed in his chair. “More beer,” he declared, righting himself. 

“Yes.” John said, “I concur.” 

“Well then,” Bill stood, stumbled and headed to the bar, “Doctors orders.” 

When Bill was gone, Molly and Mike looked serious again. 

“John,” Molly said, leaning forward, “I haven’t seen you like this before. You’re agitated and worked up over someone. Don’t you think you owe it to yourself to find out if that means something?” 

“It doesn’t.” John insisted. “He’s not reliable and God knows I’m not either. It’s a train wreck of fucked up versus fucks everything.”

“But--”

“No. He’s not interested, I’ll probably never see him again. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to find someone who is.” 

Rising from his chair John marched over to Bill who was just turning back, a pint in each hand. 

“Here,” Bill says, passing one of them over.

“Cheers.” John lifted the glass and gulped down half of the contents in a few large swallows. 

“On it?” Bill asked. 

“On it.”

“Good job I’m not at placement tomorrow, this is going to get messy.” 

“Yup. And we’re not going home alone either.”

“Calling that Sherlock bloke?” 

John paused on the edge of the dancefloor. “They’re making it into something it’s not. A good shag, like you said, that’s all. We can get that anywhere.” 

“You can you mean.” 

“You too. Look, fresh meat.” John indicated to two girls swaying to the music on the left of the floor. “Take your pick.” 

“Brunette.” Bill said.

“Blonde’s good for me.” John said, knowing brunettes might be off the menu for a good long while. He didn’t need his brain making _that_ comparison thank you very much. 

\---- 

An hour later they were sharing a taxi back to the girls’ place. Bill and the brunette - Malorie - were busy getting very friendly. Lips locked, wandering hands, their breathing coming in soft rhythmic waves. John was trying to concentrate on the soft hand on his thigh and the wet tongue on his neck. 

“Alright,” the girl said after a few more useless swipes with her palm at the lack of interest in John’s trousers. “What am I doing wrong? You seemed up for it in the club.” 

“I was. I am.” John protested, but it was weak. 

“Break up.“

“Excuse me?”

“You are suffering from an extreme case of the break-up blues,” she declared, “Fucking me will not help you get over it. Trust me. Not that you seem that interested in doing that anyway…”

“No.” John said, turning in his seat to face her more head-on, “I haven’t broken up with someone.”

“Near enough though.” The girl retrieved her cigarettes from her bag as the taxi slowed. 

“Look,” John said as they exited the taxi, pausing as Bill and Malorie made their way into the house, oscillating slightly. “Sorry, can we start over?”

“Oh hun.” the girl said lighting her cigarette and blowing the first plume into the air. The smell make him think of being crowded against a wall, about hot breath huffed onto his cheek. “Tell you what, if you can tell me my name I’ll let you take me upstairs and fuck me until you realise it isn’t going to work. If not, we go inside, crack open the vodka and you tell me all about it.” 

“I--” John paused, again. He tried wading through the light fog the beer from the club had left him with, “It’s…” 

The girl smiled. “Vodka. Now.”

He was ushered inside and they sat unceremoniously on the couch. Vodka, cold and cruel in the bottom of dark blue mug. 

“Since I’m about to bare my soul,” John said, “under duress, I might add. Mind reminding me of your name?” 

The girl grinned, showing all of her straight white teeth. “You’re going to be fun, John Watson,” she said, “I’m Mary, Mary Morstan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated a little early for you, since it was written. 
> 
> Follow me [on Tumblr](http://madopheliaa.tumblr.com) for updates and such.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

_Bright. Loud. Movement. Dizzy. Sick._ John pulled himself to a sit. The empty vodka bottle by his feet rattling as it rolled along the laminate flooring. 

“Morning sunshine.” 

“Oh,” John turned his head, wincing as a slice of pain made its way behind his eyes, “Morning.” 

Mary was making tea, the kettle boiling sounded loud as it bubbled.

“You were out like a light,” Mary said, “One minute you were talking, the next, gone.”

“Didn’t embarrass myself too much did I?” 

“No, not really,” she smiled warmly and scooted John’s feet up the sofa to sit down, throwing the blanket across her pyjama clad legs, “Mostly you talked about Sherlock.”

John groaned. “How much did I tell you?” 

Mary’s smile was downright filthy, “All of it I should think. It was quite… detailed. I don’t think you could have left anything out.” 

“I’m sorry, not very good. We’ve only just met.” 

Mary punched him playing fully on the arm, her fingers warm from the cup of tea. 

“Don’t be an idiot. It’s fine.” She stretched out her legs so they were draped over John’s lap. “Look, I don’t know if you want my advice, we have only just met, but I think you’re being stupid.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yes.” Mary said punctuating the word with her wiggling feet, “You’re upset because he hasn’t called but have you bothered to call him? Why should it be his responsibility?”

“He told me to leave,” John insisted, “He didn’t want to talk about what happened.” 

“That’s how you tell it,” Mary nodded, “but didn’t you tell him you didn’t want to stick around anyway. Besides, you’d just solved a murder, you should have been on a high instead of going over and over it. I’d have just shagged his brains out in celebration.” 

John smirked, “Yeah, because shagging people without thinking about it has been so good for me in the past. I’m no good with relationships Mary, no good at all.”

“No one is saying you have to be sweetie.” She shifted so they were sat next to each other, head leaning on his shoulder. “Besides, you were quite up for it last night.” 

John groaned again, “Thank god you talked me out of that one. I was in no fit state.” 

“Me either,” she said lifting her head so they were a breath apart, “I’m fine this morning though.” 

“Really? After all that?”

Mary shrugged, sliding a warm hand across the nape of John’s neck, “You just said you aren’t in a relationship with him, you said you didn’t want one. I’m not asking you for one.”

They were so close together. Her lips were barely brushing his as she spoke. 

“That’s a bad idea.” John whispered, suddenly very affected by the claustrophobic feeling of the whole scene.

“You love bad ideas,” Mary said, firming her grip and bringing their lips together.

John nearly let it go, almost gave in to the wet press of her against him. But he didn’t. Pushing gently, he eased her backwards. 

“I think I need to start avoiding bad ideas.” John said, affectionately squeezing her shoulders, “You’re great. I hope we can be friends, but for right now…”

“For right now you’re still up on Sherlock.” 

“I’m not… It’s not…” 

“It’s fine John,” Mary sat back, settling herself into the sofa. “Maybe once you’ve got him out of your system.”

“Maybe.”

They smiled at each other fondly. John thought that if circumstances had been different he might have said sod it all, but as it was, there was unfinished business. One way or another.

“Right then, since I’m getting nothing from you, could you take your housemate off my landing and put him somewhere that won’t disturb my sleep?”

“The landing?” John said. 

Mary nodded, taking John’s mug from him as he flicked the blanket off his legs. He was wobbly when he stood, the flush of alcohol still flowing through him, but he made it to the first floor landing without tripping on the stairs. 

There, curled up against the bannister, snoring his head off, was Bill. 

“You idiot.” John said giving him a soft kick. “Bloody well get up.”

“John?” Bill shuffled and turned his head to look at John upside down. He grinned. “Good one last night.” 

“Good one? You’re sleeping in a hallway.”

“Yeah,” Bill said, “Um… Girl… Ran me ragged and then wanted rid. Couldn’t leave without you and you were spark out so I just bunked down here.” He accepted a helping hand from John and stretched to his feet. “Good practice for the army anyway.” 

“Girl?”

Bill shrugged. “Buggered if I know.” 

“Malorie.”

“Right you are.” Bill said stretching his arms over his head, “We for the off?”

John nodded, following Bill back down the stairs. He’d been like that hadn’t he? Didn’t know Molly’s name when he woke up, hadn’t know plenty of names when he woke up. Sometimes not even because he was drunk, he just hadn’t asked. 

Like a lot of things had recently, the thought made him shiver and wish he could change some of the things he’d done.

\-----

By the time they got home, John’s hangover was well and truly set in. Bill stepped out of the taxi, blinking in the harsh light. 

“Can’t believe you didn’t sleep with her,” he said, “Your Three Campus charms wearing off?” 

“I could have if I wanted,” John said handing the driver some cash and hopping down from the raised taxi door, “I’ve got them lined up Billy boy, I’m a legend.”

He was joking, it was easier. Puffing out his chest an adopting an unnatural swagger was much simpler than actually trying to discuss his changing values with the one friend that championed his previous ones. 

“You sure do,” said Bill, nodding in the direction of the house. 

Leaning casually on the red brick at the side of John’s front door, one hand in the pocket of his black trousers, the other holding a cigarette, his hair artfully mussed in a way that reminded John of lazy morning sex and windy hikes, was Sherlock Holmes.

John’s mouth was probably open. He could feel a rush of air against his tongue but he hadn’t been aware of his jaw dropping at all. 

“I’ll leave you to it,” Bill said, “I’ve got zombies to kill.”

Bill slapped a hand comradely on John’s back and let himself in to the house with a polite glance and a hello for Sherlock. The student detective did not respond.

“That was rude.”

“I thought you didn’t want the job of correcting my social indiscretions.” Sherlock pushed off the wall with his shoulders, flicking his cigarette into the street.

“I don’t… I--”

“That is not the reason I came,” Sherlock said, striding over to stand in front of John.

“Oh no?”

“No.” Sherlock crowded in again, swamping John with his own particular brand of self satisfaction and cool dominance. “I came because I consider it imperative we have sex again.” 

John swallowed hard. The pulsing at this temples preventing his eye from going as wide as they would have. Instead, he blinked. “Imperative?”

“Absolutely.”

John grinned. He wasn’t entirely sure he was awake enough for this conversation, maybe he hadn’t woken up at all and all of this was a crazy dream wherein the object of his recent lust, the only person he had never been able to talk in to bed, was here demanding they have sex again.

“You’re bored aren’t you? You haven’t got a case or whatever.”

Sherlock huffed. 

“Sex isn’t usually used as a distraction from being bored.”

“I can’t see why not,” Sherlock said, “Surely you’ve done similar in the past.”

John had to admit to that one. He’d had sex for much more frivolous reasons in the past as well. At least curing his boredom was a fairly productive reason.

“You’re probably right,” John said still smiling.

“So, then.” Sherlock said advancing on him with that predatory gleam in his eye that John was getting to used to. 

“No, no Sherlock we can’t just do this again. We haven’t even talked about it. You didn’t want to talk about it last time either, that’s the reason we ended up disagreeing.”

“You wanted to _talk_ about it?”

“Yes!”

Sherlock’s brow was furrowed. John had only seen that look on his face once before when he’d been trying to figure out the case and had been baffled by the tablets. 

“I thought--” Sherlock stopped, his mouth clicking shut as though rethinking his sentence. “I had theorised you would be accustomed to sexual encounters to the extent that discussion after the fact became irrelevant. I wasn’t aware there was anything to say.”

John coughed out a laugh. “You thought I’d shagged so many people that I’d want to do it and then not talk about it afterwards?”

Sherlock shrugged.

“Well, true, in the past I have wanted that. But with you… this time, I don’t know. I wanted to.” 

John scuffed a foot on the pavement. There was a weed growing up with the join in the slabs and the sole of his shoe grazed it into submission against the hard concrete.

“I would be amenable to a discussion.” Sherlock said after a pause, “however, if you’re expectations are… I told you that my work was all I needed and that is still true.”

“Yet you want sex.” Blunt seemed to be the easiest way to discuss things with Sherlock, he was a man of science, of data, the direct approach made him less agitated.

“I want sex the same way I want sleep, or food. It’s a natural urge I cannot always deny.” Sherlock squared up and looked John straight in the eye, it was almost cold, but John could see a slight hint of hesitation. “The longest relationship I have ever had is with my work, the most faithful relationship I have ever had is with cocaine. I do not intend to discontinue either, nor do I intend to procure any more relationships.”

The tiny voice at the back of John’s head was screaming at him that getting involved, in any capacity, with a self-professed drug addict wasn’t just a bad idea, it was _the_ bad idea. But then, since everyone had been reminding him recently, he loved bad ideas.

How was it that he could resist Mary that very morning, a woman who was without complications, no addictions he had been immediately aware of, but there in front of Sherlock he was struggling to maintain any modicum of self control.

“I don’t do relationships either.” John said, looking back at Sherlock with the same line of defiance in his own blue eyes, “I’m a med student, I’m busy. I have neither the time nor the inclination to commit to anyone. You said it yourself, I sleep around, I don’t get involved.”

“It would appear we have our answer then.”

“Oh yeah?” John said, smirking because he knew what was coming, he knew the answer to his next question because he’d had the arrangement before. He probably had that arrangement already with Sarah, though they had never specifically had this conversation about it. “What’s that then?”

“We engage in sexual activities without commitment. Satisfying both of our sexual desires without the need to give up any more time than we would like.” 

“You mean friends with benefits.”

“God, is that what they’re calling it?” 

“Problem?” John did his best Sherlock impression at this, dipping his voice slightly and affecting an air of superiority. 

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth raised slightly. “It seems to me that the necessity for friendship is a vain attempt to conform to some social requirement of familiarity when engaging in sexual congress.”

“So, conform a little. It might do you good.”

“I am not a good friend, John.” 

“I am.” John stepped closer, “pretty good at the benefits too.” 

“So I have heard.”

John slid a hand up around Sherlock’s neck, crowding him back against the low wall separating his small front patio from the pavement, “Really? Who on earth has been talking?” 

“Oh…” Sherlock rumbled, his warm breath skimming over John’s lips as they came closer, “everyone.” 

Sherlock’s calves hit the wall and he fell into a sit on the flat top of the bricks. “As they damn well should.” John said sliding a thigh between Sherlock’s knees, “you know, I have a reputation for a reason… You said it when you first met me. Skills. Remember?”

“Ah yes. Skills.”

John grinned and brought their mouths together. Sherlock’s mouth was as warm as he remembered. John set a steady pace, swiping Sherlock’s plush bottom lip and twining their tongues together. Sherlock made a soft groan as John’s hand slid down his arm to grip his two wrists in one hand, pinning him in place. Holding back his own noises, not yet ready to relinquish control, John shifted so his thigh was pressed against the growing bulge at the juncture of Sherlock’s legs. 

The moan Sherlock made then was practically indecent. 

“Ahem.”

The noise startled them both, springing apart John looked left and right searching for the source of the interruption.

Mike was stood leaning on their gate. Arms folded across his chest, a deep crease between his eyebrows.

“Not the place, mate.”

John flushed. “Ah, yes, we’ll…”

He stepped back, pulling at Sherlock who seemed to be rendered mute. Manhandling him he forced Sherlock past Mike, up the short path, and in through the door.

Once inside, John broke into a laugh, “That was ridiculous.”

“Not the first time he’s caught you, I’m sure.”

John sucked in air and tried to dampen his mirth. “First time on the front wall though.”

“Glad I could be first at something.”

“I have a few firsts left,” John said, laugh all but ended. 

“Such as?”

“You’re the detective,” John hummed quietly, “Figure it out.”

Sherlock tilted his head, as though attempting to do just that. “John…”

John cleared his throat, stepped into Sherlock’s space and cupped palm over the front of Sherlock’s trousers. “Still interested I see.” 

Sherlock’s eyes blinked a few times, snapping from their analytical drag over John’s face. He nodded. 

“Upstairs,” John said, with a squeeze, “now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Follow me on Tumblr at Madopheliaa](http://madopheliaa.tumblr.com) for updates and progress on all my fics.


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